today i almost bought a pair of red shoes, the vampy kind, high hills, pointed. then i realized that i have already three pairs of red shoes, if not more, since my shoes are scattered out in three houses in two continents, i sometimes can not remember all that i have. although i love red shoes, i rarely wear them. it seems i tend to have at least three of everything, that explains how i ended up with three husbands. at least three! sobering.
it is sale time, post xmas tired shoppers are out in masses. the only thing i really needed, was an item not on sale. how did they know? anyhow, i love shopping for underwear, perhaps the only kind of clothes shopping i like, and i like to do it alone. this year however, i could not find the motivation to even look for anything, i do not need anything more in the underwear department, i most likely have three of each, and then i have enough to last me another three years. i will do fine, as long as they do not invent a new kind of tax just for underwear. nonetheless, the one thing i needed, belongs to my specialized kind of underwear, it is the kind of garment that is extremely difficult to find these days, the good old jogging bra to pull over, no hooks either in the front or the back. however, it seems that i am not the only one alone with this problem, this is a shower room conversation, and my dojo colleagues have the same problem. no hooks in the back please! why. for jogging that would not be a problem, but for aikido, it is a major problem. technical details are obvious for those who need to know. why, am i going on about jogging or sports bras?
it is not just red shoes that i have enough, i also have enough with the husbands. once over dinner this week i confessed to a good friend my biggest discovery for the year: i like to live alone, and i do not like changing sexual partner. it took me a while to figure this out, and it explains a lot of the "strange" behavior in my life. those concerned can also easily testify to the veracity of the previous statement. duh.
this is the mood going into the new year: i have a sore throat and have been fighting some bug for the last few days, i have invited a whole bunch of people over and i have no clue how many are actually coming because it is a rather informal, last minute thing, a sylvester party for those with no other plans. a bit of a change from most years when i either go hide in the mountains or at the beach. the son will be going to his friends in zurich and do whatever 20-year-olds do on such occasions.
Friday, 31 December 2004
Thursday, 30 December 2004
what does the tsunami have to do with me
1. i can not bear to see the pictures of the people in their desperation or in their death in this catastrophe. on any other occasion i am a voyeur like any normal being, not in this. at times like this, i do regret not having studied either medicine or architecture. people with such skills can help now.
however to get a remote idea of what happened, here are some satellite images before and after which may help the curious:
WorldChanging: Another World Is Here: Satellite Before-and-After
2. dear close friends missed being in the region by one day. they stopped by in Dubai, most likely that stop-over saved their lives.
3. the family that helps us with household chores here has one daughter still in Sri-Lanka. i pray that she is ok, both her parents and two brothers are in switzerland, and it was just two weeks ago that i helped her father get some information so that she can join them here.
somehow it is a lot closer to home that it seems.
however to get a remote idea of what happened, here are some satellite images before and after which may help the curious:
WorldChanging: Another World Is Here: Satellite Before-and-After
2. dear close friends missed being in the region by one day. they stopped by in Dubai, most likely that stop-over saved their lives.
3. the family that helps us with household chores here has one daughter still in Sri-Lanka. i pray that she is ok, both her parents and two brothers are in switzerland, and it was just two weeks ago that i helped her father get some information so that she can join them here.
somehow it is a lot closer to home that it seems.
Wednesday, 29 December 2004
been interlaced
every so once in a while i get an attack of internet.
the pumpkin here has now taken to teach me how to play "natural selection"... and his attitude is "mom, you going to learn this in spite of yourself!" it has been great for a few laughs and for some rather bad jokes when i batch upload images to flickr and hog up the bandwidth causing him to have pings of over 2000...
what happens after i have had my internet-sitting attack, is that i come out of it, and usually have learned a few things about myself, interacted with a few interesting people, and sometimes meet some people whom i would otherwise not meet. the only thing that bothers me about it, is that my immediate circle, even the more geeky ones, have other internet habits from mine, and we stick to the old channels of interaction. big exception is my brother in california, followed by a couple of cousins in london. then there are those that even after i set up a blog, still prefer to interact with me, the old fashioned way, email and phone. my shock this year was to receive a greeting card, the paper variety, from a cousin who has broadband internet access. a family of romantics!
recently i have set up a wiki for work, that one is being more fun and more challenge that what i expected. so i am now faced with the decision of what to do about it, i certainly am not happy with the way the test run went, either the software or how the whole thing worked out for us. go figure. i am a firm believer in ubiquitous computing, that includes software with the same characteristics, you are using it, and you do not even realize it is software. i want super intelligent software, that is all. i can deal with people's faults, vices, and shortcomings, i have a lot more trouble developing the same attitude towards software.
during the past couple of weeks i have given flickr a good combing. kudos, the stuff is good, and i do not care to find out at a personal level what the software is like. the only thing missing is the ability for my rather over-teched or fumbled-non-teched friends and family to be able to look at a particular set of pictures in private from the flickr server. right now, to look at especially tagged pictures for a private group, you need an account with flickr. that last possibility, looking at private pictures without having an account, it is perhaps the only good thing that yahoo pictures has in terms of features, the rest was all either too slow or too lame, i uploaded a few pictures on a couple of occasions, and then looked for alternatives. it could be that it is a lot better, i have not checked in well over one year.
how am i?
got a sore throat.
the pumpkin here has now taken to teach me how to play "natural selection"... and his attitude is "mom, you going to learn this in spite of yourself!" it has been great for a few laughs and for some rather bad jokes when i batch upload images to flickr and hog up the bandwidth causing him to have pings of over 2000...
what happens after i have had my internet-sitting attack, is that i come out of it, and usually have learned a few things about myself, interacted with a few interesting people, and sometimes meet some people whom i would otherwise not meet. the only thing that bothers me about it, is that my immediate circle, even the more geeky ones, have other internet habits from mine, and we stick to the old channels of interaction. big exception is my brother in california, followed by a couple of cousins in london. then there are those that even after i set up a blog, still prefer to interact with me, the old fashioned way, email and phone. my shock this year was to receive a greeting card, the paper variety, from a cousin who has broadband internet access. a family of romantics!
recently i have set up a wiki for work, that one is being more fun and more challenge that what i expected. so i am now faced with the decision of what to do about it, i certainly am not happy with the way the test run went, either the software or how the whole thing worked out for us. go figure. i am a firm believer in ubiquitous computing, that includes software with the same characteristics, you are using it, and you do not even realize it is software. i want super intelligent software, that is all. i can deal with people's faults, vices, and shortcomings, i have a lot more trouble developing the same attitude towards software.
during the past couple of weeks i have given flickr a good combing. kudos, the stuff is good, and i do not care to find out at a personal level what the software is like. the only thing missing is the ability for my rather over-teched or fumbled-non-teched friends and family to be able to look at a particular set of pictures in private from the flickr server. right now, to look at especially tagged pictures for a private group, you need an account with flickr. that last possibility, looking at private pictures without having an account, it is perhaps the only good thing that yahoo pictures has in terms of features, the rest was all either too slow or too lame, i uploaded a few pictures on a couple of occasions, and then looked for alternatives. it could be that it is a lot better, i have not checked in well over one year.
how am i?
got a sore throat.
La Femme de Gilles
La Femme de Gilles:
http://www.lafemmedegilles.com/index_flash.htm
i do not quite know how to put this in somewhat mild terms, that is, this about how this film hit me. to me, it is one of the most feminist films i ever watched, it is directed by a man, and i doubt any self professed feminist will agree with me. still, this is how i feel about it, like it or not.
warning: not the kind of film that you want to watch, if you tend towards depression.
http://www.lafemmedegilles.com/index_flash.htm
i do not quite know how to put this in somewhat mild terms, that is, this about how this film hit me. to me, it is one of the most feminist films i ever watched, it is directed by a man, and i doubt any self professed feminist will agree with me. still, this is how i feel about it, like it or not.
warning: not the kind of film that you want to watch, if you tend towards depression.
Tuesday, 28 December 2004
my deep and meaningful relationship to socks
startled through the morning i deal with fragments of memories of being in high school, living in Montreal, and trying to deal with what to a child of privilege is a catastrophic trauma, and to a child of poverty would have been the greatest gift. i have never known on which side of the tracks i stand, is it privilege, is it poverty, i cross the tracks often, i hesitate.
this morning was no different, i had warned my son that there are some peculiar habits that i have gotten into since i have been living alone, one of these being zazen in seiza, something that aikidoka are known to practice on a regular basis, and that although i would appreciate if he did not make much noise then, there is no need for him to hold back on his normal activities if i am sitting. he grins, a grin that is very his, and comments that anything that keeps my mouth shut is just fine with him, he can deal with that. mother and son have a rather privileged relationship, one i could never have imagined possible, but then i never gave the thing of being a mother much thought, i grew on me and i was very fortunate that he is a rather challenging person with a deep sense of solidarity which often made me ponder the question of who is educating whom.
the socks are another issue. some years ago, in the winter, i would say, i need either a man, or a pair of socks in bed to keep me warm. although flattering to the socks, the men are demoted to warmth providing objects, as a consequence i got more than one nasty comment on my nerve to say something like that. i said it, others only thought about it and kept their brilliant little mouths shut. these days i sleep in winter without either, and i am quite content at that. not that i all of a sudden turned asexual, still sleep and sex just do not go together in my book. a man and sleep, does not make for sex either. not here, not in this book of mine. it is winter, and i like winter. it took me a little longer to face the animal whom i am, that little animal that likes to be alone, alone with or without socks. i went over the hundreds of pictures that i took in istanbul in june and what struck me was how much i had enjoyed being "alone" there. while on mission, i was part of a delegation, one night a senior member of the delegation and i went up to the rooftop of some hotel in taksim for some drinks, more discussion of politics, and a great view of istanbul by night, still i was blissfully alone. later in the summer that bliss left me, and that one that had crawled under my skin, started to invade my space. it was not until november when i finally took a stand, faced myself and my hesitation, looked him in the eyes, and said farewell. i can not say that it left me cold and placid. finally i felt alone, and free.
ich bin die welt abhanden gekommen, or so it feels like. disconnect to reconnect. you made a mess of it, unconnected all, and reconnect, slowly reconnect it the way that you want to connect. it could be, dear you, dear me, that it will take several trials. faire et défaire, c'est du travail.
another says that he likes the devil in him, i say that i love my ego, aka bitch, and the muse reminds me of riding the ego. we are all talking of the same thing, like my friend who penned in my notes "everybody thinks about themselves, i think about myself." my penning friend sometimes hints about being a writer, although i have known him for years, i would not know if that is true, it could be, and it does not matter, he is not less or more of a friend because of what he writes or does not write, i have also never used him as a substitute for socks back then. the biggest encouragement i received and continue to receive as a writer is from an american writer, a woman, published, brilliant, accomplished. a few summers ago i found myself having fascinating discussions with her, and feeling rather guilty that i had never read any of what she wrote. finally, months later, i got one of her books in my hands, read it, even liked it; it did not make a difference, it was still great to discuss and argue with her. sometimes she reads my stuff, i get a few words back, and i am never sure of what she means, sometimes i dwell for months on one sentence from her and make that one sentence a source of power. me not being sure and hesitating, that is part of me. but is it?
that other, he is brilliant, that other, he is fascinating. that other, thank the universe, he is thousand of kilometers away, and as close as my instant messenger. when i first read his self description, all sorts of alarms and red flags went up in me. ah, i thought, here is one, he makes it much too easy for me to project onto him, to project all of that... well, you know how projections go! he sounds so much like me, he is sure, and he hesitates. he is wild and very alive, he is loud and wonderful. at a distance, you can not help yourself, you love him, you love life. up close, he scares the living daylights out of you. power, in its raw and most beautiful conjugation. male, again! rats! treason, all over, treason. honest answers, i like, not necessarily at first sight, but i like them, they age gracefully and while at first they seem to be thugs, they end up being your best friends in time of need.
i read something that he wanted me to read, i could barely read it, it overwhelmed all of my registries. fulminant... more than brilliant, not bubbly, not light... touching, scorching, yet it left me with more questions than the answers that i did not have. crack, intellectual pornography? i refuse to make a call on this one: i like it. when i like, it is absolute. to like is far more individual and intimate than to love. i love the whole world, much of it i do not like. i love mankind, i do not like the barriers between men and women, the gender walls, those i do not like. so what is a man, really? am i back to this, again?
is it because the end of the gregorian calendar year is at hand, and once again, this is when i take inventory? last year i tried counting the lovers, or was it the men in my life? i failed, either way i failed.
if nothing else, my ego has left very little room for anybody in this life of mine besides myself: a child of fifteen, a being in a man's world, a woman bent on freedom, a child of privilege in Montreal. on the banks of the saint lawrence river is where i first discovered what i much later learned is called "ki." when in 1981 i saw the shore at del mar, in san diego county, that shore that recalled trafal, my lost trafal, then, my dream was present for a fraction of semblance, and i forgot it all, again, once more. no dream, no ki, just surviving, barely surviving, unaware of each breath of life. forget and remember. the cycle, the tides, all fresh, all forgotten.
this is about language, the trauma was to think that i had been robbed of my language, the gift was that i would explore a whole new one, colonize it, and make it my own. this past year was about reclaiming what is mine, my solitude, my freedom. not reclaiming it by accident, by choice. is any of this personal? it is intimate, not personal.
that other, i thank him for his generosity. it is not easy to get my attention, painful on discovery as it is is, it is so. it seems that i have always listened to another drummer, and that drummer wears socks to bed to keep warm in its solitude. i am an actor who refuses to learn the lines, and will not write the play either, or is it that indeed i have written the play? doubt you should, ponder you ought.
do not attenuate! that script needs scrapping. i am not telling you what to do, i am talking to myself. i have a deep and meaningful relationship with my shoes, and sometimes i stray with the socks.
this morning was no different, i had warned my son that there are some peculiar habits that i have gotten into since i have been living alone, one of these being zazen in seiza, something that aikidoka are known to practice on a regular basis, and that although i would appreciate if he did not make much noise then, there is no need for him to hold back on his normal activities if i am sitting. he grins, a grin that is very his, and comments that anything that keeps my mouth shut is just fine with him, he can deal with that. mother and son have a rather privileged relationship, one i could never have imagined possible, but then i never gave the thing of being a mother much thought, i grew on me and i was very fortunate that he is a rather challenging person with a deep sense of solidarity which often made me ponder the question of who is educating whom.
the socks are another issue. some years ago, in the winter, i would say, i need either a man, or a pair of socks in bed to keep me warm. although flattering to the socks, the men are demoted to warmth providing objects, as a consequence i got more than one nasty comment on my nerve to say something like that. i said it, others only thought about it and kept their brilliant little mouths shut. these days i sleep in winter without either, and i am quite content at that. not that i all of a sudden turned asexual, still sleep and sex just do not go together in my book. a man and sleep, does not make for sex either. not here, not in this book of mine. it is winter, and i like winter. it took me a little longer to face the animal whom i am, that little animal that likes to be alone, alone with or without socks. i went over the hundreds of pictures that i took in istanbul in june and what struck me was how much i had enjoyed being "alone" there. while on mission, i was part of a delegation, one night a senior member of the delegation and i went up to the rooftop of some hotel in taksim for some drinks, more discussion of politics, and a great view of istanbul by night, still i was blissfully alone. later in the summer that bliss left me, and that one that had crawled under my skin, started to invade my space. it was not until november when i finally took a stand, faced myself and my hesitation, looked him in the eyes, and said farewell. i can not say that it left me cold and placid. finally i felt alone, and free.
ich bin die welt abhanden gekommen, or so it feels like. disconnect to reconnect. you made a mess of it, unconnected all, and reconnect, slowly reconnect it the way that you want to connect. it could be, dear you, dear me, that it will take several trials. faire et défaire, c'est du travail.
another says that he likes the devil in him, i say that i love my ego, aka bitch, and the muse reminds me of riding the ego. we are all talking of the same thing, like my friend who penned in my notes "everybody thinks about themselves, i think about myself." my penning friend sometimes hints about being a writer, although i have known him for years, i would not know if that is true, it could be, and it does not matter, he is not less or more of a friend because of what he writes or does not write, i have also never used him as a substitute for socks back then. the biggest encouragement i received and continue to receive as a writer is from an american writer, a woman, published, brilliant, accomplished. a few summers ago i found myself having fascinating discussions with her, and feeling rather guilty that i had never read any of what she wrote. finally, months later, i got one of her books in my hands, read it, even liked it; it did not make a difference, it was still great to discuss and argue with her. sometimes she reads my stuff, i get a few words back, and i am never sure of what she means, sometimes i dwell for months on one sentence from her and make that one sentence a source of power. me not being sure and hesitating, that is part of me. but is it?
that other, he is brilliant, that other, he is fascinating. that other, thank the universe, he is thousand of kilometers away, and as close as my instant messenger. when i first read his self description, all sorts of alarms and red flags went up in me. ah, i thought, here is one, he makes it much too easy for me to project onto him, to project all of that... well, you know how projections go! he sounds so much like me, he is sure, and he hesitates. he is wild and very alive, he is loud and wonderful. at a distance, you can not help yourself, you love him, you love life. up close, he scares the living daylights out of you. power, in its raw and most beautiful conjugation. male, again! rats! treason, all over, treason. honest answers, i like, not necessarily at first sight, but i like them, they age gracefully and while at first they seem to be thugs, they end up being your best friends in time of need.
i read something that he wanted me to read, i could barely read it, it overwhelmed all of my registries. fulminant... more than brilliant, not bubbly, not light... touching, scorching, yet it left me with more questions than the answers that i did not have. crack, intellectual pornography? i refuse to make a call on this one: i like it. when i like, it is absolute. to like is far more individual and intimate than to love. i love the whole world, much of it i do not like. i love mankind, i do not like the barriers between men and women, the gender walls, those i do not like. so what is a man, really? am i back to this, again?
is it because the end of the gregorian calendar year is at hand, and once again, this is when i take inventory? last year i tried counting the lovers, or was it the men in my life? i failed, either way i failed.
if nothing else, my ego has left very little room for anybody in this life of mine besides myself: a child of fifteen, a being in a man's world, a woman bent on freedom, a child of privilege in Montreal. on the banks of the saint lawrence river is where i first discovered what i much later learned is called "ki." when in 1981 i saw the shore at del mar, in san diego county, that shore that recalled trafal, my lost trafal, then, my dream was present for a fraction of semblance, and i forgot it all, again, once more. no dream, no ki, just surviving, barely surviving, unaware of each breath of life. forget and remember. the cycle, the tides, all fresh, all forgotten.
this is about language, the trauma was to think that i had been robbed of my language, the gift was that i would explore a whole new one, colonize it, and make it my own. this past year was about reclaiming what is mine, my solitude, my freedom. not reclaiming it by accident, by choice. is any of this personal? it is intimate, not personal.
that other, i thank him for his generosity. it is not easy to get my attention, painful on discovery as it is is, it is so. it seems that i have always listened to another drummer, and that drummer wears socks to bed to keep warm in its solitude. i am an actor who refuses to learn the lines, and will not write the play either, or is it that indeed i have written the play? doubt you should, ponder you ought.
do not attenuate! that script needs scrapping. i am not telling you what to do, i am talking to myself. i have a deep and meaningful relationship with my shoes, and sometimes i stray with the socks.
Saturday, 25 December 2004
my 2004 christmas story
more than twenty two years ago i married a swiss. today i saw this same man with tears in his eyes. he had not seen our son for more than three years.
i was sitting around still in pajamas this afternoon when the phone rang, he asked if our son was around. i passed the phone to the other side of the house and after a few minutes, our dear son tells me that i better put some clothes on, he is going to be here within five minutes. he, the son, grinned and i jumped under the shower. i can take a shower like a cadet in 3 seconds flat, still by the time i was out, we already had guests at the door.
they, he and his second wife, did not get past the hallway, they were on their way to Crans Montana for skiing, and it was getting late. indeed, it was getting late if they still wanted to make it to Montana.
of all the men in my life, this one had the roughest time with me. the story of our divorce outstrips many a dramatic play in how two otherwise half reasonable people can make each other go through hell. this is one subject i have never touched in any of my writing, it is often at some level a meta inspiration, but never directly. but today, it was good to see that i was happy that he could see his son, and that the last minute drop by announcement did not bother me in the slightest bit.
i think he paid a rather high price for one mistake in his life. one moment that changed his life for ever, and the consequence of which was that our son was raised by me, and grown to be a wonderful young man without him seeing the small steps, the struggles, the conflicts, the little joys on the way. i can feel his tears, i share them. we have a wonderful son.
i was sitting around still in pajamas this afternoon when the phone rang, he asked if our son was around. i passed the phone to the other side of the house and after a few minutes, our dear son tells me that i better put some clothes on, he is going to be here within five minutes. he, the son, grinned and i jumped under the shower. i can take a shower like a cadet in 3 seconds flat, still by the time i was out, we already had guests at the door.
they, he and his second wife, did not get past the hallway, they were on their way to Crans Montana for skiing, and it was getting late. indeed, it was getting late if they still wanted to make it to Montana.
of all the men in my life, this one had the roughest time with me. the story of our divorce outstrips many a dramatic play in how two otherwise half reasonable people can make each other go through hell. this is one subject i have never touched in any of my writing, it is often at some level a meta inspiration, but never directly. but today, it was good to see that i was happy that he could see his son, and that the last minute drop by announcement did not bother me in the slightest bit.
i think he paid a rather high price for one mistake in his life. one moment that changed his life for ever, and the consequence of which was that our son was raised by me, and grown to be a wonderful young man without him seeing the small steps, the struggles, the conflicts, the little joys on the way. i can feel his tears, i share them. we have a wonderful son.
went to sleep and woke up
thinking of Christoph Geiser. he lives close by, at one time we were even practically next door neighbors. that was during the time when i was spending most of my time in the Frankfurt area, and keeping up residence in Berne for some practical administrative reasons, to say nothing of my love affair with the Aare and my friends here.
Christoph Geiser's books be-marvel me. i could forget anything at all, if only i could write a tiny little bit as well as he does. i approach his prose with caution, he writes in german, i am always afraid of not being able to give it the due appreciation. i had one hell of a time learning german, and it took me a few years before i started to see the beauty and power of that language; it was not until i started to read Geiser that i discovered its unlimited beauty. the lesson for me, was not so much about the language, that is a tool, but how you use the tool and tis limitations. regardless of how ugly the tool is, how limited it is, it is not the tool that creates the work of art, it is the artist.
Christoph Geiser's books be-marvel me. i could forget anything at all, if only i could write a tiny little bit as well as he does. i approach his prose with caution, he writes in german, i am always afraid of not being able to give it the due appreciation. i had one hell of a time learning german, and it took me a few years before i started to see the beauty and power of that language; it was not until i started to read Geiser that i discovered its unlimited beauty. the lesson for me, was not so much about the language, that is a tool, but how you use the tool and tis limitations. regardless of how ugly the tool is, how limited it is, it is not the tool that creates the work of art, it is the artist.
i do not like xmas, i do not love
i have no gurus
i have passions
i have no idols
i have desires
i have no icons
i have nothing
your life wants to touch mine, it does.
it did, it did before you knew it
we are one, we were always so.
before, after and during birth
before, after and during death
your life touches mine...
you reach out, i turn away.
i can not
i hesitate...
i want out...
not another one,
not seduction again.
semiotic remains,
dead buddhas,
agonized memories.
guilt is pretense.
i can not, i shall.
may you have the boldness of resolve,
the adventure of roses,
the wildness of the gentle waters,
the insatiability of the unborn,
the tenacity of the dead,
all of that and then nothing more,
then again,
the path is always yours.
you are alone.
you are alone in the crowd,
you are alone in the house,
you are alone in your life,
you are alone.
you are alone in your family.
alone and connected.
what difference would it make?
here, there, anywhere.
now. just now.
impersonal it is.
embrace.
i have passions
i have no idols
i have desires
i have no icons
i have nothing
your life wants to touch mine, it does.
it did, it did before you knew it
we are one, we were always so.
before, after and during birth
before, after and during death
your life touches mine...
you reach out, i turn away.
i can not
i hesitate...
i want out...
not another one,
not seduction again.
semiotic remains,
dead buddhas,
agonized memories.
guilt is pretense.
i can not, i shall.
may you have the boldness of resolve,
the adventure of roses,
the wildness of the gentle waters,
the insatiability of the unborn,
the tenacity of the dead,
all of that and then nothing more,
then again,
the path is always yours.
you are alone.
you are alone in the crowd,
you are alone in the house,
you are alone in your life,
you are alone.
you are alone in your family.
alone and connected.
what difference would it make?
here, there, anywhere.
now. just now.
impersonal it is.
embrace.
i wake up on december 23, get busy and did not post this
i wake up, and it is morning again
i wonder, how did this all come to be...
there is a time when all prose fails me, and i want to write more than ever then.
i welcome what comes into my life:
the arrivals,
the departures,
the affluence,
the well-being,
the pain,
the joy,
the suffering,
the love.
then i stop. i think of war. i think of men killing men. i think of women killing women. i think of them killing each other.
i think of Friedrich Nietzsche, i remember that he said that insanity in individuals is something rare, but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule. it makes me wonder...
as the year comes to a close, i find myself looking back and trying to take stock. the whole thing of being in love or what on earth that might be, had me in check most of the year. how can that be, i ask myself?
yesterday, a friend of mine called to wish me a good year. when i got off the phone, i remarked to my son "now, there is one faithful man!" at each corner of my life, there seems to be very many kind and loving people. yesterday, besides taking care of some very urgent administrative details, i did no serious work, i am enjoying the company and tending to the close of the year ceremonies that include a few outings with the various groups that i work or am involved with, and quite a bit of administration. it was in the afternoon that i got a very unexpected email from a most kind soul. awesome, not awesome, miraculous. sometimes i know when my wonderful ego has to let out a jagged edge, and sometimes i let it indulge in showing its ugly face. knowledge is seldom good counsel.
this season, the season of the winter solstice, the season that i prefer to spend in the persian gulf, the season during which i tend to be much too critical of european culture, and i, inspite of all my prejudices and resistance, get bestowed with the most wonderful gifts. "how lucky can i be?" that was song sung at the beach last january, wasn't it?
earlier today i was in tears with laughter: my son and i try to figure out how a playstation2 works on this system at the house of a friend. i get bored with any video game, and he is one mean multiplayer gamer. my myopic son left his gasses in california and the optometrist does not have the new ones ready yet, i am helpless with a joy-stick controller. we tried to race each other, he couldn't see the screen on the far wall, i could see but it did not help, it was wall to wall driving. we were both rolling on the floor. these are precious moments in one's existence, when nothing makes sense, nothing matters, you are just glad to be alive and be here. you had to be there, it was beautiful.
after our foray with the playstation i invited him for a bier at the tramdepot, it was noon time, however we hardly ever eat at "normal" meal times. i had, of all things, a christmas bier, and he had something also dark while he read the newspaper and i played with the camera. yes, this is unusual, i do not drink much bier, even less in the winter. i think i know why, now i m really sleepy and my brain feels like mush. it could be that this is indeed the reality part of the show.
mother: can i invite you for a bier?
son: sure!
mother: i missed my chance to pervert a minor, you are no longer a minor
son: well... i just changed my mind about that bier
mother: ok, let's turn around
son: nah!
--------------------------------------
mother: i just never drink so early in the day...
son: never too late to start a bad habit!
falling in love, being in love, loving life itself. what does it mean?
i wonder, how did this all come to be...
there is a time when all prose fails me, and i want to write more than ever then.
i welcome what comes into my life:
the arrivals,
the departures,
the affluence,
the well-being,
the pain,
the joy,
the suffering,
the love.
then i stop. i think of war. i think of men killing men. i think of women killing women. i think of them killing each other.
i think of Friedrich Nietzsche, i remember that he said that insanity in individuals is something rare, but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule. it makes me wonder...
as the year comes to a close, i find myself looking back and trying to take stock. the whole thing of being in love or what on earth that might be, had me in check most of the year. how can that be, i ask myself?
yesterday, a friend of mine called to wish me a good year. when i got off the phone, i remarked to my son "now, there is one faithful man!" at each corner of my life, there seems to be very many kind and loving people. yesterday, besides taking care of some very urgent administrative details, i did no serious work, i am enjoying the company and tending to the close of the year ceremonies that include a few outings with the various groups that i work or am involved with, and quite a bit of administration. it was in the afternoon that i got a very unexpected email from a most kind soul. awesome, not awesome, miraculous. sometimes i know when my wonderful ego has to let out a jagged edge, and sometimes i let it indulge in showing its ugly face. knowledge is seldom good counsel.
this season, the season of the winter solstice, the season that i prefer to spend in the persian gulf, the season during which i tend to be much too critical of european culture, and i, inspite of all my prejudices and resistance, get bestowed with the most wonderful gifts. "how lucky can i be?" that was song sung at the beach last january, wasn't it?
earlier today i was in tears with laughter: my son and i try to figure out how a playstation2 works on this system at the house of a friend. i get bored with any video game, and he is one mean multiplayer gamer. my myopic son left his gasses in california and the optometrist does not have the new ones ready yet, i am helpless with a joy-stick controller. we tried to race each other, he couldn't see the screen on the far wall, i could see but it did not help, it was wall to wall driving. we were both rolling on the floor. these are precious moments in one's existence, when nothing makes sense, nothing matters, you are just glad to be alive and be here. you had to be there, it was beautiful.
after our foray with the playstation i invited him for a bier at the tramdepot, it was noon time, however we hardly ever eat at "normal" meal times. i had, of all things, a christmas bier, and he had something also dark while he read the newspaper and i played with the camera. yes, this is unusual, i do not drink much bier, even less in the winter. i think i know why, now i m really sleepy and my brain feels like mush. it could be that this is indeed the reality part of the show.
mother: can i invite you for a bier?
son: sure!
mother: i missed my chance to pervert a minor, you are no longer a minor
son: well... i just changed my mind about that bier
mother: ok, let's turn around
son: nah!
--------------------------------------
mother: i just never drink so early in the day...
son: never too late to start a bad habit!
falling in love, being in love, loving life itself. what does it mean?
Sunday, 19 December 2004
animated suspension
a flirting that you are hiding in plain sight. i remember when my most trusted friend from the LA days, now living in Chicago, would tell me that i put out so much noise, that the brilliant signal was hard to detect, unless you had a lock-in attenuator to filter out the noise. not an amplifier, the signal was loud and clear too, just the noise was even louder. filter the noise out, the signal is clear and to not overpower you, you need to attenuate it.
there is a pattern here, and i will get back to this later.
first, 2005:i have plans to go to Rome, Tokyo, and London. i have been invited so far to go to Barcelona -- or somewhere else in Spain, that I can not quite remember -- and Porto in Portugal. i have threatened my good friend in Yemen to go to Cairo. i do not count the trips to Milano, Geneva, Strasbourg, Paris, Brussels, Zurich or Frankfurt, since they are so close by, nor do i count the shuttle missions between the Algarve and Switzerland. i remember telling myself that one reason i quit jetting around as a strategist was because i got tired of... jetting around. so, what on earth am i planning here? where is the noise, what is the signal here?
second, what has made 2004 a year to remember?was it being in Trafal quite a lot? was it the great company in Quarteira? was it being again in Istanbul? was it standing on the edges of international diplomacy? or was it finally just giving in, and having the courage to say "this, i want!" ?
the year was full, of again jetting around, and discovering wifi in all sorts of airports, having surprises and being surprised. the family picnic in Amman, Jordan comes to mind, it was June, and it was starting to get hot, but to be in the middle of a discussion about "da Vinci's code" in arabic, totally blew my mind. goodbye and farewell to many a prejudice about surgeons, ministers and university professors. housewives and architects no longer surprise me, they are capable of anything.
if there is only one experience from 2004 that i get to keep, than it must be the one about the flirt in the south of France. here life was out to teach me a lesson, and the lesson was not about falling on my nose and learn through pain, the lesson was a loving lesson, a generous one.
imagine, here you are being yourself, your usual self, worried about technicalities and issues central to what you have chosen to do in life, but you remain true to yourself, you see a pretty face, a pleasant smile, and without trying you are flirting. you are flirting, it is a reflex, and about one hundred people are around, some notice it, some do not. later you receive a letter, it is not a love letter, it is not a declaration, it is also a note, here is who i am, i am this way. you wonder who wrote the letter and it is then clear to you. there is nothing to do. two egos have caressed each other. you, both, were just being yourselves, not trying. not doing. the magic is perfect, there is absolutely nothing to do.
what a contrast that was from the lectures and the justifications, the apologies unearned, the drama of it all that so much marked the "last love of my life." last night i had a rather good chat with a long time friend who lives in Rome, we passed review on the last year, and it did me a whole lot of good. i forget so easily.
word imagery, yes... the most powerful brushes are alphabetical. i am left wondering, sometimes i just do not feel like indulging my curiosity. smile.
there is a pattern here, and i will get back to this later.
first, 2005:i have plans to go to Rome, Tokyo, and London. i have been invited so far to go to Barcelona -- or somewhere else in Spain, that I can not quite remember -- and Porto in Portugal. i have threatened my good friend in Yemen to go to Cairo. i do not count the trips to Milano, Geneva, Strasbourg, Paris, Brussels, Zurich or Frankfurt, since they are so close by, nor do i count the shuttle missions between the Algarve and Switzerland. i remember telling myself that one reason i quit jetting around as a strategist was because i got tired of... jetting around. so, what on earth am i planning here? where is the noise, what is the signal here?
second, what has made 2004 a year to remember?was it being in Trafal quite a lot? was it the great company in Quarteira? was it being again in Istanbul? was it standing on the edges of international diplomacy? or was it finally just giving in, and having the courage to say "this, i want!" ?
the year was full, of again jetting around, and discovering wifi in all sorts of airports, having surprises and being surprised. the family picnic in Amman, Jordan comes to mind, it was June, and it was starting to get hot, but to be in the middle of a discussion about "da Vinci's code" in arabic, totally blew my mind. goodbye and farewell to many a prejudice about surgeons, ministers and university professors. housewives and architects no longer surprise me, they are capable of anything.
if there is only one experience from 2004 that i get to keep, than it must be the one about the flirt in the south of France. here life was out to teach me a lesson, and the lesson was not about falling on my nose and learn through pain, the lesson was a loving lesson, a generous one.
imagine, here you are being yourself, your usual self, worried about technicalities and issues central to what you have chosen to do in life, but you remain true to yourself, you see a pretty face, a pleasant smile, and without trying you are flirting. you are flirting, it is a reflex, and about one hundred people are around, some notice it, some do not. later you receive a letter, it is not a love letter, it is not a declaration, it is also a note, here is who i am, i am this way. you wonder who wrote the letter and it is then clear to you. there is nothing to do. two egos have caressed each other. you, both, were just being yourselves, not trying. not doing. the magic is perfect, there is absolutely nothing to do.
what a contrast that was from the lectures and the justifications, the apologies unearned, the drama of it all that so much marked the "last love of my life." last night i had a rather good chat with a long time friend who lives in Rome, we passed review on the last year, and it did me a whole lot of good. i forget so easily.
word imagery, yes... the most powerful brushes are alphabetical. i am left wondering, sometimes i just do not feel like indulging my curiosity. smile.
Wednesday, 15 December 2004
semantics and terminology
i trust that you all have a dictionary available to you, either online or offline. you might want to use it while you are reading this posting.
for the last few days a few words have been pestering me, they seem to be rather intrusive.
the list: weblog, blog, post, posting, blogosphere, blogsphere, blogscape, post, posting, intellectual, scholar, semantic, physical, virtual, real.
you will only find about half of these in any dictionary, the other half is "emerging vocabulary," that is, words being born from their context and usage.
i have observed a misconcept around virtual. virtual is real, it just is not physical. somewhere along the line this must be said and clarified, virtual means what exactly?
even virtual reality is rather real, the sensations which are imparted by which ever means, are real, what you feel, nobody can deny, it is your claim, although one can argue extensively over it's physical existence, and end up turning in endless circles as to what makes up sensation and feeling. let me continue my ranting with the following note: you have a life, some of it is physical, some of it virtual, and for your own sake, i hope it all is real, albeit at times totally irrational. no, i have not lost my sense of humor, but have you found it?
i just got off the phone with a good friend of mine, one of those people whose path one day crossed mine, and who to my surprise, in spite of all appearances, is a rather sensitive and empathetic person. tears rolled down my face in this conversation, and it felt wonderful. release is starting to happen. last night i exchanged a few words with a friend who recently broke her nose doing kick-boxing, and it brought back the painful memories of my own broken nose seventeen years ago. imagine seventeen years ago, and the wound is not healed. that wound is real although it has taken me so many years to tend to it finally, you would think it is long gone and forgotten. when i tell you that i am slow, i kid you not. my sister died when i was ten years old, the tears came out 30 years later one day when i was driving from Mainz to Heidelberg. all those years, i wondered why i could not cry. i can cry when i feel safe and protected, will i also be able to cry without a friends shoulder or the comfort of my car? i know i can cry of joy, but when the pain is too intense, i get paralyzed, not even the tears will flow.
they say, it is men that don't cry. here is one woman who can not cry when a good cry would do wonders. tears must come in all sorts of forms and at all sorts of occasions. i distinctively remember one incident when i could not contain my tears in a meeting, it was rage, and i was perfectly comfortable with it, the others in the meeting were having a rather difficult time with my tears, and i was feeling rather good. it was an occasion that did not touch me deeply like either my sister's death or the violent aggression that broke my nose.
nothing is very rational today.
for the last few days a few words have been pestering me, they seem to be rather intrusive.
the list: weblog, blog, post, posting, blogosphere, blogsphere, blogscape, post, posting, intellectual, scholar, semantic, physical, virtual, real.
you will only find about half of these in any dictionary, the other half is "emerging vocabulary," that is, words being born from their context and usage.
i have observed a misconcept around virtual. virtual is real, it just is not physical. somewhere along the line this must be said and clarified, virtual means what exactly?
even virtual reality is rather real, the sensations which are imparted by which ever means, are real, what you feel, nobody can deny, it is your claim, although one can argue extensively over it's physical existence, and end up turning in endless circles as to what makes up sensation and feeling. let me continue my ranting with the following note: you have a life, some of it is physical, some of it virtual, and for your own sake, i hope it all is real, albeit at times totally irrational. no, i have not lost my sense of humor, but have you found it?
i just got off the phone with a good friend of mine, one of those people whose path one day crossed mine, and who to my surprise, in spite of all appearances, is a rather sensitive and empathetic person. tears rolled down my face in this conversation, and it felt wonderful. release is starting to happen. last night i exchanged a few words with a friend who recently broke her nose doing kick-boxing, and it brought back the painful memories of my own broken nose seventeen years ago. imagine seventeen years ago, and the wound is not healed. that wound is real although it has taken me so many years to tend to it finally, you would think it is long gone and forgotten. when i tell you that i am slow, i kid you not. my sister died when i was ten years old, the tears came out 30 years later one day when i was driving from Mainz to Heidelberg. all those years, i wondered why i could not cry. i can cry when i feel safe and protected, will i also be able to cry without a friends shoulder or the comfort of my car? i know i can cry of joy, but when the pain is too intense, i get paralyzed, not even the tears will flow.
they say, it is men that don't cry. here is one woman who can not cry when a good cry would do wonders. tears must come in all sorts of forms and at all sorts of occasions. i distinctively remember one incident when i could not contain my tears in a meeting, it was rage, and i was perfectly comfortable with it, the others in the meeting were having a rather difficult time with my tears, and i was feeling rather good. it was an occasion that did not touch me deeply like either my sister's death or the violent aggression that broke my nose.
nothing is very rational today.
Tuesday, 14 December 2004
friends
every once i a while i fall into this hole, some call it a cave. i say that i am the particle in the box. i remain inside my walls, bounce of off them, gather momentum and eventually tunnel out. those with a knowledge of quantum mechanics, do recognize the language, it is thus small wonder that quantum mechanics has so often held my attention. i can relate to a world that is quantized, and nonlinear, it is my world, that world that i am so fond of sharing with you.
i have been in my box, i was there during the month of ramadan, and got deeper into the well during the weeks that followed. i pray, that i have finally got enough energy to tunnel out and that me and my belly button are ready to come out of the cave and get some fresh air. i needed this, the cave, the hole, the well, the box, like i need the air i breathe.
although i sometimes shake my head in disbelief about how much drama some people need in their lives, when i take a good look deep down, i am no different. coming to terms with this does not feel wonderful, and the feelings that tend to take me by the guts are harrowingly discomforting. it is anxiety, it is fear, or sometimes it is plain cowardice, and it is all mine. it is not without reluctance that i have began to own up to this.
i was warned by very loving people around me that it might be this way. every single one of them was right, and i did not believe any of it. i am indeed fortunate to have these very loving people around, and when, like last wednesday, one of them needed something from me, i was glad to give it my all. in giving it my all, i got more back than i gave, and that is the miracle of all of this. i wanted to write about last wednesday, but i was stunned. i am slow, and i only can comprehend through my physical body. i have to experience it down to the marrow of my bones. those who would like to see me as the intellectual, mean well, and need new glasses. my ego would love it if i was the intellectual, it could then have a feast at commanding the show. alas, i am not that intellectual.
here is to you:
i have been in my box, i was there during the month of ramadan, and got deeper into the well during the weeks that followed. i pray, that i have finally got enough energy to tunnel out and that me and my belly button are ready to come out of the cave and get some fresh air. i needed this, the cave, the hole, the well, the box, like i need the air i breathe.
although i sometimes shake my head in disbelief about how much drama some people need in their lives, when i take a good look deep down, i am no different. coming to terms with this does not feel wonderful, and the feelings that tend to take me by the guts are harrowingly discomforting. it is anxiety, it is fear, or sometimes it is plain cowardice, and it is all mine. it is not without reluctance that i have began to own up to this.
i was warned by very loving people around me that it might be this way. every single one of them was right, and i did not believe any of it. i am indeed fortunate to have these very loving people around, and when, like last wednesday, one of them needed something from me, i was glad to give it my all. in giving it my all, i got more back than i gave, and that is the miracle of all of this. i wanted to write about last wednesday, but i was stunned. i am slow, and i only can comprehend through my physical body. i have to experience it down to the marrow of my bones. those who would like to see me as the intellectual, mean well, and need new glasses. my ego would love it if i was the intellectual, it could then have a feast at commanding the show. alas, i am not that intellectual.
here is to you:
in a silver box lined with gold
there is a precious treasure
a treasure that you can not see
a treasure that you can not touch
a treasure that you can not taste
a treasure that you can not smell
a treasure that you not feel
listen to yourself.
Monday, 13 December 2004
just when i thought that i knew you
where have you gone?
why do you keep on hiding from me?
why do you refuse to accept that which is so yours?
why do you keep burying your head in the sand?
why deny the evident?
why refuse the dream?
why not dare?
who said that you did not have a right?
who dared to deny it?
remember the dreams...
remember the stars...
remember the ocean...
the sand at your feet,
the tide in the air,
the house...
come back to me,
return to your source
we are one,
we were born together,
without you,
there is no reality,
there is no dream,
there is no vanity.
tell me all, we want to listen.
why do you keep on hiding from me?
why do you refuse to accept that which is so yours?
why do you keep burying your head in the sand?
why deny the evident?
why refuse the dream?
why not dare?
who said that you did not have a right?
who dared to deny it?
remember the dreams...
remember the stars...
remember the ocean...
the sand at your feet,
the tide in the air,
the house...
come back to me,
return to your source
we are one,
we were born together,
without you,
there is no reality,
there is no dream,
there is no vanity.
tell me all, we want to listen.
Monday, 6 December 2004
blogging about blogging: loved, read, wanted, scripted, typed
We are born screaming, it gets loud on earth and in the living room. Peer pressure and authority teach us to keep our loud mouths shut. By the time we arrive at adulthood we are wonderful frustrated voyeurs with an urge to be exhibitionists and loud. We want to be heard, even if it is our fingertips that do the talking.
First they invented the telephone, before that they had to find Canada and colonize it. But then there was a man named Alan Touring, he was brilliant among other things that were a bit more or less nothing they talked about in those days. Somehow Marconi also has had a starring role in all of this. Then even before that, there was Columbus, the total failure in Henry's navigation sailing school, he had to err into the land of the Iroquois, Apache and all those american natives unsoiled by European genes, living in the non-promised land, between the Atlantic and the Pacific salines. The ever so exotic and esoteric physicists took an escape from the tunnels that bang particles together, and gave us the first browser signed "Lac Leman," after the all powerful colonizers, a bit further south, had, in the bitter coldness of that war that never took place other than inside the heads of some men and fewer women, invented the internet. It was not Al Gore. Armed with radio waves, telephone lines, and more expensive typewriters that still can not do the dishes, we are now armed to the teeth to take over the internet that we humans have thus concocted.
Finally there is good news: we can string it all together, the Merriam-Webster Dictionary has deemed the word "blog" worthy of a definition as the word of the year. Blissful, I have been using it for a while, more than months, like years. I like this, personally, it feels like some sort of affirmation, consolation, and reassurance that I do live on this planet, although I keep on having serious doubts that I originate anywhere from within the terrestrial chaos, although I have no doubts as to my nature being of the human kind.
Ever since this announcement the blogsphere has been a bursting supernova of citations and hyperlinking to this now famous honor bestowed upon the humble leggings of a logger word which, will have semioticians and philologists, not necessarily semitic ones, of the world in thousands of years from now, scratching their heads on how from web-log it evolved to blog, while electronic-mail became email. But then, what is a "blogsphere" anyhow?
When I was growing up in Bordeira, and was dreaming of being a farmer, or a physical education teacher -- already then i had been indoctrinated sufficiently to believe that poets need day time jobs -- never did I think that it would come to this: blogging. Worldwide blogging. I was deeply marked and brain washed at an early age by reading Jules Verne and the whole iberian folklore of expansion and discovery. While I was writing my first thesis in California and wishing that the house was all interfaced to a computer and that I did not have to go turn on the sprinklers manually, little did I know that I was just a few years away from interfacing my first instrument to an Apple computer. Things have changed a bit, and I am back, like in California, to using a machine that has Unix in it. It is just that the Vax has gone out of fashion or transmuted into a vacuum cleaner, and the Mac is making a splash, while I have become my own ill qualified, sometimes ill humored, systems administrator. At one level I have the impression of having been there and at another level, I never quite imagined it this way. I grew up with 2001 Space Odyssey and Star Wars as the fodder for unrealistic star gazing. In 2004 these two works of art and fiction come close to being both mythology and religion, while i remain perplexed by this unexpected religion frontier expansion.
To write a blog, that is, to blog, you need a blogging humanoid, called a blogger, and a blogger tool of some vintage or other. After I gave it a go with the browser based blogging tools, I have settled into using ecto, a combination of word processor, html formatter, and uploader. You need all of that besides being on the grid or matrix, connected to the internet. To me the evolutionary aspect of blogging is however not to be found in the technology and the associated gadgets, it is in the people, the blogger. The blogger is a new grit of techno. Bloggers come in three varieties: the totally identified, the virtually identified, and the others.
The third category of blogger is an heterogeneous kaleidoscope of many facets of human expression, it ranges from the kid around the block on the way to becoming a geek, to the bored sales clerk venting his fantasies or just unloading the stories of his life, passing through the traditional mainstream opportunist who has hijacked the idea of a blog and is making something or other out of it, but certainly nothing that is authentically his or hers. Publish or perish has no meaning in the blogsphere, but what happens when you write or publish and nobody reads? The ultimate blogging experience must be the one in that you blog your own silence, and it gets read.
It could be that for most bloggers what matters is to publish, to post on to the blog site, and to have readers is like the frosting on the cake. It is however not necessarily so, this is about exchange of opinions, views, comments, interaction. What distinguishes a real blogger from an impostor is the transparency and authenticity that he or she is willing to lay on the line and on the posts that make up the published blog. This is the new grit, people who publish their meeting notes in blog form, will answer e-mail private inquiries from total strangers, post their travel schedule, and that above all, write and publish what they see with either their experience, cameras, emotions or intellect. The most interesting bloggers that I have been reading, live by what they preach, and not all of them have flawless punctuation. Still it is a pleasure to read their opinions on what they read from mainstream news, world events, and what they experience in their lives. Blogging goes beyond censure, and it respects the opinions of others while giving you all the space to express your own, in your own language.
My own experimentation with blogging started last March. The real reasons for it either elude me or I want to keep them suppressed in the deepest recess of my psyche, but the opportunity was clear. Almost 50 years old, and for the first time in my life I was dumped by a man who never quite made it to my rank of "partner" (at this age the designation "boyfriend" seems a tad displaced). I created a very personal, very private blog and very public, it was my way of both working through the grief, and of telling my closest friends how I was doing and what my thoughts on the matter were. I could have dismissed the whole incident with the words of a friend "he is not worth your time," or with the line from the musical Evita "do all your one night stands give you this much trouble?" I did not want to dismiss it like that, above all, I could not, there was a sweet lesson in it, and I did not want to miss the learning. About 40'000 words later I wrote an epilogue to the story and declared it complete and ready for editing. Their future, the blog's and the story's, both remain unclear while during the process of its creation I gained a bit of clarity as to what I am made of.
Writing a blog is not soul stripping, or soul strip tease, to me it is all about being honest with oneself and the world out there, the community in which we live, our colleagues and friends. Blogging requires integrity, it goes beyond your own private journal written in long hand and that remains confined to your possession. I still keep a long hand journal, a practice which I have not given up in spite of my blogging. While a private journal, or diary, will remain unchecked for facts, veracity, or accuracy, a blog worthy of the name, will be scrutinized by the public eye of your readers. Blogging for business or blogging for life, you can only be yourself, and you have a social responsibility, something quite different from censure, to respect the rights and opinions of others. Those who blog and flourish as bloggers exhibit true self-expression. Blogging is about freedom of expression, and about authenticity. It is also about exprimentation and adventure, it is about reaching out and interacting. Blogging is not new, it started with humanity before there were houses, high rises or high tech. The first bloggers were those who painted the inside of their caves and left their expression for millennia for us to admire. Voyeurs we are, voyeurs and exhibitionists we remain. Nothing has changed in our nature, but the tools look a bit different from those of the Cromagnon man.
First they invented the telephone, before that they had to find Canada and colonize it. But then there was a man named Alan Touring, he was brilliant among other things that were a bit more or less nothing they talked about in those days. Somehow Marconi also has had a starring role in all of this. Then even before that, there was Columbus, the total failure in Henry's navigation sailing school, he had to err into the land of the Iroquois, Apache and all those american natives unsoiled by European genes, living in the non-promised land, between the Atlantic and the Pacific salines. The ever so exotic and esoteric physicists took an escape from the tunnels that bang particles together, and gave us the first browser signed "Lac Leman," after the all powerful colonizers, a bit further south, had, in the bitter coldness of that war that never took place other than inside the heads of some men and fewer women, invented the internet. It was not Al Gore. Armed with radio waves, telephone lines, and more expensive typewriters that still can not do the dishes, we are now armed to the teeth to take over the internet that we humans have thus concocted.
Finally there is good news: we can string it all together, the Merriam-Webster Dictionary has deemed the word "blog" worthy of a definition as the word of the year. Blissful, I have been using it for a while, more than months, like years. I like this, personally, it feels like some sort of affirmation, consolation, and reassurance that I do live on this planet, although I keep on having serious doubts that I originate anywhere from within the terrestrial chaos, although I have no doubts as to my nature being of the human kind.
Ever since this announcement the blogsphere has been a bursting supernova of citations and hyperlinking to this now famous honor bestowed upon the humble leggings of a logger word which, will have semioticians and philologists, not necessarily semitic ones, of the world in thousands of years from now, scratching their heads on how from web-log it evolved to blog, while electronic-mail became email. But then, what is a "blogsphere" anyhow?
When I was growing up in Bordeira, and was dreaming of being a farmer, or a physical education teacher -- already then i had been indoctrinated sufficiently to believe that poets need day time jobs -- never did I think that it would come to this: blogging. Worldwide blogging. I was deeply marked and brain washed at an early age by reading Jules Verne and the whole iberian folklore of expansion and discovery. While I was writing my first thesis in California and wishing that the house was all interfaced to a computer and that I did not have to go turn on the sprinklers manually, little did I know that I was just a few years away from interfacing my first instrument to an Apple computer. Things have changed a bit, and I am back, like in California, to using a machine that has Unix in it. It is just that the Vax has gone out of fashion or transmuted into a vacuum cleaner, and the Mac is making a splash, while I have become my own ill qualified, sometimes ill humored, systems administrator. At one level I have the impression of having been there and at another level, I never quite imagined it this way. I grew up with 2001 Space Odyssey and Star Wars as the fodder for unrealistic star gazing. In 2004 these two works of art and fiction come close to being both mythology and religion, while i remain perplexed by this unexpected religion frontier expansion.
To write a blog, that is, to blog, you need a blogging humanoid, called a blogger, and a blogger tool of some vintage or other. After I gave it a go with the browser based blogging tools, I have settled into using ecto, a combination of word processor, html formatter, and uploader. You need all of that besides being on the grid or matrix, connected to the internet. To me the evolutionary aspect of blogging is however not to be found in the technology and the associated gadgets, it is in the people, the blogger. The blogger is a new grit of techno. Bloggers come in three varieties: the totally identified, the virtually identified, and the others.
The third category of blogger is an heterogeneous kaleidoscope of many facets of human expression, it ranges from the kid around the block on the way to becoming a geek, to the bored sales clerk venting his fantasies or just unloading the stories of his life, passing through the traditional mainstream opportunist who has hijacked the idea of a blog and is making something or other out of it, but certainly nothing that is authentically his or hers. Publish or perish has no meaning in the blogsphere, but what happens when you write or publish and nobody reads? The ultimate blogging experience must be the one in that you blog your own silence, and it gets read.
It could be that for most bloggers what matters is to publish, to post on to the blog site, and to have readers is like the frosting on the cake. It is however not necessarily so, this is about exchange of opinions, views, comments, interaction. What distinguishes a real blogger from an impostor is the transparency and authenticity that he or she is willing to lay on the line and on the posts that make up the published blog. This is the new grit, people who publish their meeting notes in blog form, will answer e-mail private inquiries from total strangers, post their travel schedule, and that above all, write and publish what they see with either their experience, cameras, emotions or intellect. The most interesting bloggers that I have been reading, live by what they preach, and not all of them have flawless punctuation. Still it is a pleasure to read their opinions on what they read from mainstream news, world events, and what they experience in their lives. Blogging goes beyond censure, and it respects the opinions of others while giving you all the space to express your own, in your own language.
My own experimentation with blogging started last March. The real reasons for it either elude me or I want to keep them suppressed in the deepest recess of my psyche, but the opportunity was clear. Almost 50 years old, and for the first time in my life I was dumped by a man who never quite made it to my rank of "partner" (at this age the designation "boyfriend" seems a tad displaced). I created a very personal, very private blog and very public, it was my way of both working through the grief, and of telling my closest friends how I was doing and what my thoughts on the matter were. I could have dismissed the whole incident with the words of a friend "he is not worth your time," or with the line from the musical Evita "do all your one night stands give you this much trouble?" I did not want to dismiss it like that, above all, I could not, there was a sweet lesson in it, and I did not want to miss the learning. About 40'000 words later I wrote an epilogue to the story and declared it complete and ready for editing. Their future, the blog's and the story's, both remain unclear while during the process of its creation I gained a bit of clarity as to what I am made of.
Writing a blog is not soul stripping, or soul strip tease, to me it is all about being honest with oneself and the world out there, the community in which we live, our colleagues and friends. Blogging requires integrity, it goes beyond your own private journal written in long hand and that remains confined to your possession. I still keep a long hand journal, a practice which I have not given up in spite of my blogging. While a private journal, or diary, will remain unchecked for facts, veracity, or accuracy, a blog worthy of the name, will be scrutinized by the public eye of your readers. Blogging for business or blogging for life, you can only be yourself, and you have a social responsibility, something quite different from censure, to respect the rights and opinions of others. Those who blog and flourish as bloggers exhibit true self-expression. Blogging is about freedom of expression, and about authenticity. It is also about exprimentation and adventure, it is about reaching out and interacting. Blogging is not new, it started with humanity before there were houses, high rises or high tech. The first bloggers were those who painted the inside of their caves and left their expression for millennia for us to admire. Voyeurs we are, voyeurs and exhibitionists we remain. Nothing has changed in our nature, but the tools look a bit different from those of the Cromagnon man.
Saturday, 4 December 2004
you asked: how are you?
today, i do not think that i am. or else i just do not think, or have no capacity for it.
had a great evening last night, aikido practice was fun, we were only 3. then the "knights of the round table" got together at the usual place in the "länggasse" near the university, and it ended up being a rather late evening including beer, grappa and cigars. this morning i woke up too late to go down to the dojo, now i realize that i ought to have been in basel to attend an event, and that my head is turning a bit, and i need to pull myself together.
sigh!
had a great evening last night, aikido practice was fun, we were only 3. then the "knights of the round table" got together at the usual place in the "länggasse" near the university, and it ended up being a rather late evening including beer, grappa and cigars. this morning i woke up too late to go down to the dojo, now i realize that i ought to have been in basel to attend an event, and that my head is turning a bit, and i need to pull myself together.
sigh!
you asked about it: blog, blogging...
A Penny For...: The latest essay on "Blogging is not for me.":
The latest essay on "Blogging is not for me."
The latest essay on "Blogging is not for me."
Friday, 3 December 2004
how i want to die
clearly, i want to die spent. totally spent, physically, mentally, emotionally, and other-wisely... spent. spent and without excuses describes the ideal state to die.
this is how i want to die after i have done what "i" want to do, and experienced what "i" want to experience. i am tired of mind fucking, i am tired of being accused of being an intellectual. to me there is no greater insult than to be called an intellectual. an intellectual! that is that abstract concept that the dictionary defines first as the power or faculty of knowing as distinguished from the power to feel and to will. i am hard on intellectuals today, they are those people who can rime a few things together in a pseudo-theoretical prescriptive fashion (or fad). they can string together a set of fallacies, gossip, misinformation, or propaganda in some plausible, fictitious way, and then go around selling it as though it was wisdom. somehow, seen in that light it is a club that i do not want to belong to. call me in intellectual, and you will meet the wrath of my vanity, call me a whore, and i will think about it!
sometimes it seems like it takes me forever to get to the other side of what i am trying to get through. the last couple of months have been that way, and i am not out of the hole just yet. i call it a hole, but it is what others call a plateau. it requires a lot of patience, and a great relationship with frustration to go through this and come out on the other side ripping the benefits of pure dedication, failure and a desire to transcend it.
this is how i want to die after i have done what "i" want to do, and experienced what "i" want to experience. i am tired of mind fucking, i am tired of being accused of being an intellectual. to me there is no greater insult than to be called an intellectual. an intellectual! that is that abstract concept that the dictionary defines first as the power or faculty of knowing as distinguished from the power to feel and to will. i am hard on intellectuals today, they are those people who can rime a few things together in a pseudo-theoretical prescriptive fashion (or fad). they can string together a set of fallacies, gossip, misinformation, or propaganda in some plausible, fictitious way, and then go around selling it as though it was wisdom. somehow, seen in that light it is a club that i do not want to belong to. call me in intellectual, and you will meet the wrath of my vanity, call me a whore, and i will think about it!
sometimes it seems like it takes me forever to get to the other side of what i am trying to get through. the last couple of months have been that way, and i am not out of the hole just yet. i call it a hole, but it is what others call a plateau. it requires a lot of patience, and a great relationship with frustration to go through this and come out on the other side ripping the benefits of pure dedication, failure and a desire to transcend it.
Corporate Blogger Code of ethics
PR Thoughts: Blogger Code of ethics:
Blogger Code of ethics:
1. I will tell the truth.
2. I will write deliberately and with accuracy.
3. I will acknowledge and correct mistakes promptly.
4. I will preserve the original post, using notations to show where I have made changes so as to maintain the integrity of my publishing.
5. I will never delete a post.
6. I will not delete comments unless they are spam or off-topic.
7. I will reply to emails and comments when appropriate, and do so promptly.
8. I will strive for high quality with every post - including basic spellchecking.
9. I will stay on topic.
10. I will disagree with other opinions respectfully.
11. I will link to online references and original source materials directly.
12. I will disclose conflicts of interest.
13. I will keep private issues and topics private, since discussing private issues would jeopardize my personal and work relationships.
Disclaimer: The publication and citation of this code by "intutum" does not constitute either an endorsement nor a recommendation of what is being cited. The discussion currently being cited has to do with "corporate" blogging, not with individual private blogging.
Blogger Code of ethics:
1. I will tell the truth.
2. I will write deliberately and with accuracy.
3. I will acknowledge and correct mistakes promptly.
4. I will preserve the original post, using notations to show where I have made changes so as to maintain the integrity of my publishing.
5. I will never delete a post.
6. I will not delete comments unless they are spam or off-topic.
7. I will reply to emails and comments when appropriate, and do so promptly.
8. I will strive for high quality with every post - including basic spellchecking.
9. I will stay on topic.
10. I will disagree with other opinions respectfully.
11. I will link to online references and original source materials directly.
12. I will disclose conflicts of interest.
13. I will keep private issues and topics private, since discussing private issues would jeopardize my personal and work relationships.
Disclaimer: The publication and citation of this code by "intutum" does not constitute either an endorsement nor a recommendation of what is being cited. The discussion currently being cited has to do with "corporate" blogging, not with individual private blogging.
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