it is the weekend, or those couple of days that are different from the preceding five days, and to add to the leisure account, in switzerland, monday is the national holiday. tomorrow will be the day that politicians make big speeches and right wing extremists protest the fact that they are over taxed in a pluralistic world.
me, i am blissfully alone in the capital. i went to bed this morning around 4, after installing XP on a set of salvaged PC parts. the details of this exercise, albeit a lot of fun for an old experimental physicist, are much too boring. that is, i would get bored writing about all these details.
it is sunday, and i got up around noon. got myself the usual brew of soya milk and coffee, and turned on the mac mini. sunday morning when i check mail, it is also the time that the macs are programmed to back up to the external hard drive. when it comes to data storage, i believe in redundancy. when it comes to men, i hold the same beliefs. both are very fragile, and the slightest lapse of attention can have their whole content crash and unrecoverable. hard drives are usually made of glass. men's fragility and vulnerability comes from their strength and power.
the last weeks have thrown my routine off kilter. i really miss getting up at 5. i conclude that i am ill adapted to sharing quarters with anybody. for the past 8 weeks my son has been around here, we are sharing office and living space. it is great to have him around, we do not talk much, and sometimes we sit around the dinning room table and have these great discussions that leave me content about the wonderful being on the other side of the dialogue. on other occasions he is a total ass, and i feel that this fellow has much to learn. this weekend he went to the mountains with his father, and i am enjoying my solitude.
at this point i need to take a shower and get going, i have a running appointment with a friend, yet my thoughts revolve around a picture, not the man, of a teacher and friend. in writing earlier today to a another friend in saudi arabia whom i have not seen in much too long, a loyal friend, someone who often is a sparring partner in my monologues, i found myself pronouncing that "what makes fiction be fiction is the distortion of reality" in allusion to my post from yesterday. at the time that that picture was taken i was feeling rather calm, not excited, not happy, not having fun, just serene and calm. i like that feeling, and i like that feeling even more when i have so much to do that the only approach is to be the task rather than some excuse for bad behavior. the more there is to do in making this woman's dreams be reality, the more focused i became, it is as though, time dilates. there is time to do it all. all being just that which i want with all the integrity of my being.
the friend in the picture is not irrelevant, he is one source of continued inspiration. wherever that inspiration that transcends him, is not personal, it is not about him, it is all the distortion of a reality of infinite beauty, and a wonder of canvassing into my own decryption of essentialism.
i need my solitude just to feel my life again. feeling alive, being in love. you tell me the difference?
yes, i return to my muse. i have been much too busy with the gorgeous mundane in this life of mine, and i have run the danger of almost neglecting you! how could i possibly?
once, he told me that one day i would ask him what is more important, his life or i. he would say, his life, and i would walk away never knowing that i am his life.
Sunday, 31 July 2005
Saturday, 30 July 2005
theory of art
so, again, once more, how are you doing?
i no longer have to wait for my brother or my mother to ask me the question. i have been so well scripted, i will ask myself the question and proceed to give it an answer without an external trigger.
lately i have not had much time to even ask myself the question, but after 12 hours of sleep, a full calendar ahead, and a weekend during which i took 5 photos, one of which was out of focus, i have no clue as to how i feel, and i am not even sure it is of any importance to qualify my impressions on this. while the accounting on the feelings may seem irrelevant, the hue and taste of what is going on are both fascinating and seductive.
sunday and monday went by quickly and with an intensity that i like, mostly i worked, and in between i had about six hours of sleep, shared a good drop of Melot di Ticino with colleagues, and wondered about the very adventure of work on the shores of the lake of geneva. let's say, work is fun. if work is not fun, stop working.
i know that it is saturday already, again.
then, it was this monday and my colleague and i went into sharing notes on being policy advisors, and how to implement policy reforms, and once again i found myself in yet another area that i very much like.
well, you are starting to get the drift of this life. on wednesday i was back in lausanne for a business meeting and find myself wearing clothes appropriate for hot weather, but hardly for such a meeting. me, not really being attached to "normal" protocol while being aware that not all are so casual about book and personal wrappings, began the meeting with the traditional remarks about hot weather, then attempted to excuse my very casual appearance. the only surprise was that indeed, such gesture was appreciated by the fellow with whom i was meeting.
while not having a clue of how i feel, here are a few lose thoughts as to how my life presents itself.
i never quite imagined that living in the fast lane was anything like this. movement is fast, events happen without much warning, and either one has the reflexes to save one's skin or one is dead on the spot. if you do have the reflexes that allow survival, this is total fun. if feels dangerous and it is not. what is danger?
i must be getting old, really old. i meet new people, look into their faces, and i recognize familiar traits. within the past few weeks this has happened twice.
just two weeks ago i met somebody whose professional services i was interested in. the first time that i looked at his face, i knew that i was lost. not only does he look a lot like somebody else very dear to me, i find the man very attractive, much more so than the "original" one who is a friend whom i have known for many years. at times like this, i am not grateful for the little difference between men and women. that is, i am not grateful at the moment, but that is not the whole story. i looked into his face, and i could only step back and listen to the murmur of my internal chatter. this made it evident that i have not been doing much zazen recently, the background noise is starting to be exceedingly loud. it is time to hit the zafu again on a more regular basis.
for a few days i have been trying to reach a friend on his mobile in saudi arabia, however i keep on getting this rather sexy male voice telling me in arabic that this number can not be reached at this time, i feel like i should call that number several times a day, the phone company announcer on that saudi mobile phone service provider does have a very very warm voice. oh! yes, i am one known to fall for a man's voice. so, i am exaggerating, i do not fall for a man's voice, but let me tell you that i delight in a certain type of male voice and can listen and be happy to just listen. sean connery's voice does fall into that category, so does the voice of one of my close associates.
the issue of blondes keeps on recurring. my two close work associates have a thing for blondes, and when i am honest with myself so do i. the only twist here is that i am not so picky, tall, blond and handsome is good but so is tall, dark and handsome. but then, i have often claimed that i have a blond soul, whatever that means!
still, on thursday night after weapons training, i find myself casually discussing business dress and being blond with my sensei. this makes all no sense unless you know that she is very blond, and has a rather deep lack of concern for business attire. blond is not an hair color, it is a prejudice against certain phenotypes, which like most prejudices causes blindness, and demonstrates a character limitation.
business is supposed to be all serious and rational stuff. forget it! show up at a meeting with an unknown banker with whom you want to negotiate something in casual decent clean clothes, and chances are that you will only get what you want if you are the world's most capable negotiator. i have nothing against bankers, it is just that as a profession they are the ones one tends to associate with such cliché behavior.
really! is life anything more than an accumulation of banalities?
last night i got together with "the boys" around a few biers and some french fries, and we ended up discussing motorcycles. this is my life. last night provided a good picture of it. i went to aikido training, there were four very young men in that awkward age when they can no longer be called boys, and are not quite yet fully grown into their bodies, who came to the dojo to try out what aikido was all about. it is a great age to try something like aikido, and it gave me a wonderful perspective on what it is like to be a total beginner. afterwards a colleague walked with me part of the way to my motorcycle-bier discussion, and we exchanged views on a few things dear to us from aikido, music, and zen. the boys are my friday evening physicist's round table that i attend more or less regularly. we meet at a totally uncool restaurant near the university. in spite of all the uncoolness of premises, or the standard italian fare from the kitchen, i cherish the time spent with these colleagues and friends with whom i share many interests and on whom i can always count to have a good discussion on either quantum cryptography or motorcycles.
i no longer have to wait for my brother or my mother to ask me the question. i have been so well scripted, i will ask myself the question and proceed to give it an answer without an external trigger.
lately i have not had much time to even ask myself the question, but after 12 hours of sleep, a full calendar ahead, and a weekend during which i took 5 photos, one of which was out of focus, i have no clue as to how i feel, and i am not even sure it is of any importance to qualify my impressions on this. while the accounting on the feelings may seem irrelevant, the hue and taste of what is going on are both fascinating and seductive.
sunday and monday went by quickly and with an intensity that i like, mostly i worked, and in between i had about six hours of sleep, shared a good drop of Melot di Ticino with colleagues, and wondered about the very adventure of work on the shores of the lake of geneva. let's say, work is fun. if work is not fun, stop working.
i know that it is saturday already, again.
then, it was this monday and my colleague and i went into sharing notes on being policy advisors, and how to implement policy reforms, and once again i found myself in yet another area that i very much like.
well, you are starting to get the drift of this life. on wednesday i was back in lausanne for a business meeting and find myself wearing clothes appropriate for hot weather, but hardly for such a meeting. me, not really being attached to "normal" protocol while being aware that not all are so casual about book and personal wrappings, began the meeting with the traditional remarks about hot weather, then attempted to excuse my very casual appearance. the only surprise was that indeed, such gesture was appreciated by the fellow with whom i was meeting.
while not having a clue of how i feel, here are a few lose thoughts as to how my life presents itself.
i never quite imagined that living in the fast lane was anything like this. movement is fast, events happen without much warning, and either one has the reflexes to save one's skin or one is dead on the spot. if you do have the reflexes that allow survival, this is total fun. if feels dangerous and it is not. what is danger?
i must be getting old, really old. i meet new people, look into their faces, and i recognize familiar traits. within the past few weeks this has happened twice.
just two weeks ago i met somebody whose professional services i was interested in. the first time that i looked at his face, i knew that i was lost. not only does he look a lot like somebody else very dear to me, i find the man very attractive, much more so than the "original" one who is a friend whom i have known for many years. at times like this, i am not grateful for the little difference between men and women. that is, i am not grateful at the moment, but that is not the whole story. i looked into his face, and i could only step back and listen to the murmur of my internal chatter. this made it evident that i have not been doing much zazen recently, the background noise is starting to be exceedingly loud. it is time to hit the zafu again on a more regular basis.
for a few days i have been trying to reach a friend on his mobile in saudi arabia, however i keep on getting this rather sexy male voice telling me in arabic that this number can not be reached at this time, i feel like i should call that number several times a day, the phone company announcer on that saudi mobile phone service provider does have a very very warm voice. oh! yes, i am one known to fall for a man's voice. so, i am exaggerating, i do not fall for a man's voice, but let me tell you that i delight in a certain type of male voice and can listen and be happy to just listen. sean connery's voice does fall into that category, so does the voice of one of my close associates.
the issue of blondes keeps on recurring. my two close work associates have a thing for blondes, and when i am honest with myself so do i. the only twist here is that i am not so picky, tall, blond and handsome is good but so is tall, dark and handsome. but then, i have often claimed that i have a blond soul, whatever that means!
still, on thursday night after weapons training, i find myself casually discussing business dress and being blond with my sensei. this makes all no sense unless you know that she is very blond, and has a rather deep lack of concern for business attire. blond is not an hair color, it is a prejudice against certain phenotypes, which like most prejudices causes blindness, and demonstrates a character limitation.
business is supposed to be all serious and rational stuff. forget it! show up at a meeting with an unknown banker with whom you want to negotiate something in casual decent clean clothes, and chances are that you will only get what you want if you are the world's most capable negotiator. i have nothing against bankers, it is just that as a profession they are the ones one tends to associate with such cliché behavior.
really! is life anything more than an accumulation of banalities?
last night i got together with "the boys" around a few biers and some french fries, and we ended up discussing motorcycles. this is my life. last night provided a good picture of it. i went to aikido training, there were four very young men in that awkward age when they can no longer be called boys, and are not quite yet fully grown into their bodies, who came to the dojo to try out what aikido was all about. it is a great age to try something like aikido, and it gave me a wonderful perspective on what it is like to be a total beginner. afterwards a colleague walked with me part of the way to my motorcycle-bier discussion, and we exchanged views on a few things dear to us from aikido, music, and zen. the boys are my friday evening physicist's round table that i attend more or less regularly. we meet at a totally uncool restaurant near the university. in spite of all the uncoolness of premises, or the standard italian fare from the kitchen, i cherish the time spent with these colleagues and friends with whom i share many interests and on whom i can always count to have a good discussion on either quantum cryptography or motorcycles.
Friday, 22 July 2005
it is not every day...
when i woke up on tuesday morning with clear thoughts and even better defined desires, i had no idea of what was to be. on my mind, some thoughts about a man, the desires were sensuous and the flesh is weak, tender and fallible. just a few months ago, he who yesterday morning populated my desires, drew me with one gesture into a world that i ached for. a door opened.
"she enters my office, and before i can show her to the seat, she is bubbling out that she is in love. i listen, i listen attentively, i do not want to miss a word. she is in love, she is feeling alive, totally alive. it is like soaking up the sun on a cool day."
the day proceeds and i find myself in the presence of another whom i see for the first time, before i know anything, i know that i trust this man. unconditional trust. how did this happen?
i really do not care to answer all my questions. possibly i care about preciously little in this life, and possibly there are no words to convey what i care about. my quest as a writer is perhaps nothing else than the search for those words, the search for expression, the search for communication. between knowledge, concrete experiential knowledge and the ability to express and communicate that knowledge there is one huge gap, i am building the bridge across that gap.
the man of my morning thoughts who grabs me by my wrists, pins me down, and gives me no chance for escape from that which i so desire and so cowardly renounce to admit, he is far far away now.
later in the evening after encountering unqualified trust i went for a walk in the evening with my dear friend, the judge. besides me picking his brains on current legal issues, we always return to the subject of our relationships and share our experiences in an attempt to find expression to what we feel.
wednesday rolls around, and i find myself again on the tatami with my sensei. my left arm is still giving me pain, but at this point, i needed to return to the tatami. i can not explain this one. i like practice, i like the exercise of totally focusing on the moment, on what is happening in the moment, and i love the care and attention that i get, the patience with which my sensei repeatedly demonstrates a technique, until i finally start getting it, and feeling it. she never tires. then on thursday night, i just had to go to weapons practice. i walked from my office to the dojo, it is only about a 35 minute walk. all of it was enjoyable, the walk, the practice, having the jyo in my hands again. on the walk back home, remembering my other very masterful teachers who have taken me out of the class and gave me private instruction when i was much too lost with the jyo in my hands, gave me a sensation of connectedness which i do not remember from the past. i am still fond of saying that the jyo is just a stick, but i am also glad to see the smile on my sensei's face when i start to get sansho in some sort of shape, even if it is very modest progress. what gives us the bigger pleasure, receiving or giving?
but... what is pleasure?
still on tuesday night i find myself telling my nonjudgmental judge friend that i had found the man of my life, then i quickly add, for today.
"she enters my office, and before i can show her to the seat, she is bubbling out that she is in love. i listen, i listen attentively, i do not want to miss a word. she is in love, she is feeling alive, totally alive. it is like soaking up the sun on a cool day."
the day proceeds and i find myself in the presence of another whom i see for the first time, before i know anything, i know that i trust this man. unconditional trust. how did this happen?
i really do not care to answer all my questions. possibly i care about preciously little in this life, and possibly there are no words to convey what i care about. my quest as a writer is perhaps nothing else than the search for those words, the search for expression, the search for communication. between knowledge, concrete experiential knowledge and the ability to express and communicate that knowledge there is one huge gap, i am building the bridge across that gap.
the man of my morning thoughts who grabs me by my wrists, pins me down, and gives me no chance for escape from that which i so desire and so cowardly renounce to admit, he is far far away now.
later in the evening after encountering unqualified trust i went for a walk in the evening with my dear friend, the judge. besides me picking his brains on current legal issues, we always return to the subject of our relationships and share our experiences in an attempt to find expression to what we feel.
wednesday rolls around, and i find myself again on the tatami with my sensei. my left arm is still giving me pain, but at this point, i needed to return to the tatami. i can not explain this one. i like practice, i like the exercise of totally focusing on the moment, on what is happening in the moment, and i love the care and attention that i get, the patience with which my sensei repeatedly demonstrates a technique, until i finally start getting it, and feeling it. she never tires. then on thursday night, i just had to go to weapons practice. i walked from my office to the dojo, it is only about a 35 minute walk. all of it was enjoyable, the walk, the practice, having the jyo in my hands again. on the walk back home, remembering my other very masterful teachers who have taken me out of the class and gave me private instruction when i was much too lost with the jyo in my hands, gave me a sensation of connectedness which i do not remember from the past. i am still fond of saying that the jyo is just a stick, but i am also glad to see the smile on my sensei's face when i start to get sansho in some sort of shape, even if it is very modest progress. what gives us the bigger pleasure, receiving or giving?
but... what is pleasure?
still on tuesday night i find myself telling my nonjudgmental judge friend that i had found the man of my life, then i quickly add, for today.
Monday, 18 July 2005
trying to make sense of it all: failing
"how are you?" my mother asks last night on the phone.
her one and only brother passed away on the 6th of this month, and she and i have not spoken since. condolences, in this case, were done by e-mail, and on this call neither one mentioned his death. what does this all mean?
while in the mist of compiling my expenses from 2004, i came across the printout of a note that i wrote to a friend of mine. here "friend" is a term that i am using rather loosely, if not exaggeratedly. i know him, i have spoken with him, we have flirted, we have had light weight discussions, and we have done some serious work. i call him a friend because he ends being a wonderful teacher, not so much only in his discipline, but in the way he is. with him there is what i like to call affinity, that is, the feeling that one has in the presence of another that gives a sense of familiarity and awe.
not only my mother yesterday asked "how are you?" just minutes before my brother had asked "how are you?"
it is summer, it is hot, the draft in my office keeps me comfortable and hot, but not sweating. after sitting out of training for over two weeks, the prospects of some really good sweating are starting to seduce me. i like that feeling of my body when it is pushed to the limit, and knowing that i am pushing it at the edge. most of the time, i am too much of a coward, and too frightened by pain, then i choose to stay within the comfort zone. am i starting to feel cold in the comfort of my pain avoidance? but i do not only tend to avoid pain, i am equally well versed in trying to avoid reality.
not only is there the question of how i am, there is the question of the stories that i write. "is it autobiographical?" they ask. they ask not just me, they ask any poor sucker who is into writing stories; the inquisitors range from nice neighbors to intelligent journalists.
on a good day, i forget and i lie. although on another good day, i would say that i am a moralist willing to dish out moral lessons to any ill advised person who asks me for advice, still i have not much of a relationship to truth. i write fiction. i write fiction, and i do not intend to deceive or create misleading impressions about who i am or may not be. perhaps i only lie in bed, and i sincerely do hope to one day, in all peace, die there in my sleep. before then i will keep on exploring the world of the relationships in my life.
the note that i wrote to that friend is dated from october of last year, and i have no clue as to whether i have mailed it or not. i suspect that i have not, if i did mail it, this man is so full of generosity and flaws that he will forgive me the intrusion of my emotional blabbing onto his life. to me the nature of true intimacy is forgiveness. intimacy is highly unrelated to something that everybody talks about and about which i have no clue: the truth.
"that my empty and meaningless life would touch yours, that, surprises me. that your being, that being who calls himself by an angel's name, touches this life of mine, is ecstasy."
now, how many men do you know who can deal with such prose? many, but few when it is addressed to them personally, and interpreted to be personal, like in "i want your soul and body and forget the poetry!" when such prose is not perceived as personal, it is assumed to be addressed to the intellect, and thus many can deal with such words in an abstract or figurative way. the very instant such prose is interpreted, some ugly little demon always wants to know what in this physical world i want from him. the only trouble is that those little demons inside one's head are just full of gibberish and fear. i want nothing, he knows.
psychology is that invention that claims to be the science of behavior and the mind. the popularization of psychology and its mélange with new age cacophonic esotericism always renders me rather skeptical in any conversation on the subject, even when those talking about it are otherwise knowledgeable people. with psychologist and psychiatrists i can talk and have constructive conversations, with lay para-psychologists, i have my troubles. when i myself start dabbling towards the latter, i get truly alarmed. the death of my uncle threw me right into the pits of my own psychology, and i was ready to do anything to just get it over with. i did anything. i went to the movies, i had a few debates with friends, and a few good cries.
i start adding all of this up, nothing makes sense: i am one lucky person to be alive. that is how i am.
the circumstances are a mess, but since when have i had much concern for circumstances?
her one and only brother passed away on the 6th of this month, and she and i have not spoken since. condolences, in this case, were done by e-mail, and on this call neither one mentioned his death. what does this all mean?
while in the mist of compiling my expenses from 2004, i came across the printout of a note that i wrote to a friend of mine. here "friend" is a term that i am using rather loosely, if not exaggeratedly. i know him, i have spoken with him, we have flirted, we have had light weight discussions, and we have done some serious work. i call him a friend because he ends being a wonderful teacher, not so much only in his discipline, but in the way he is. with him there is what i like to call affinity, that is, the feeling that one has in the presence of another that gives a sense of familiarity and awe.
not only my mother yesterday asked "how are you?" just minutes before my brother had asked "how are you?"
it is summer, it is hot, the draft in my office keeps me comfortable and hot, but not sweating. after sitting out of training for over two weeks, the prospects of some really good sweating are starting to seduce me. i like that feeling of my body when it is pushed to the limit, and knowing that i am pushing it at the edge. most of the time, i am too much of a coward, and too frightened by pain, then i choose to stay within the comfort zone. am i starting to feel cold in the comfort of my pain avoidance? but i do not only tend to avoid pain, i am equally well versed in trying to avoid reality.
not only is there the question of how i am, there is the question of the stories that i write. "is it autobiographical?" they ask. they ask not just me, they ask any poor sucker who is into writing stories; the inquisitors range from nice neighbors to intelligent journalists.
on a good day, i forget and i lie. although on another good day, i would say that i am a moralist willing to dish out moral lessons to any ill advised person who asks me for advice, still i have not much of a relationship to truth. i write fiction. i write fiction, and i do not intend to deceive or create misleading impressions about who i am or may not be. perhaps i only lie in bed, and i sincerely do hope to one day, in all peace, die there in my sleep. before then i will keep on exploring the world of the relationships in my life.
the note that i wrote to that friend is dated from october of last year, and i have no clue as to whether i have mailed it or not. i suspect that i have not, if i did mail it, this man is so full of generosity and flaws that he will forgive me the intrusion of my emotional blabbing onto his life. to me the nature of true intimacy is forgiveness. intimacy is highly unrelated to something that everybody talks about and about which i have no clue: the truth.
"that my empty and meaningless life would touch yours, that, surprises me. that your being, that being who calls himself by an angel's name, touches this life of mine, is ecstasy."
now, how many men do you know who can deal with such prose? many, but few when it is addressed to them personally, and interpreted to be personal, like in "i want your soul and body and forget the poetry!" when such prose is not perceived as personal, it is assumed to be addressed to the intellect, and thus many can deal with such words in an abstract or figurative way. the very instant such prose is interpreted, some ugly little demon always wants to know what in this physical world i want from him. the only trouble is that those little demons inside one's head are just full of gibberish and fear. i want nothing, he knows.
psychology is that invention that claims to be the science of behavior and the mind. the popularization of psychology and its mélange with new age cacophonic esotericism always renders me rather skeptical in any conversation on the subject, even when those talking about it are otherwise knowledgeable people. with psychologist and psychiatrists i can talk and have constructive conversations, with lay para-psychologists, i have my troubles. when i myself start dabbling towards the latter, i get truly alarmed. the death of my uncle threw me right into the pits of my own psychology, and i was ready to do anything to just get it over with. i did anything. i went to the movies, i had a few debates with friends, and a few good cries.
i start adding all of this up, nothing makes sense: i am one lucky person to be alive. that is how i am.
the circumstances are a mess, but since when have i had much concern for circumstances?
Technorati Tags: fluage
Thursday, 14 July 2005
the unquiet mind...
shortly after my brother got diagnosed with manic depression, our mother sent me a book with this same title. i read it, and i was not much the wiser for it, or at least, i was too much of a pompous ass to admit to anything.
between a girl who died in infancy, and a bipolar boy, my parents were also blessed with a wayward child who refuses to grow up, me. how they deal with this, i take it to me none of my business. how i deal with my parents is however very much my own business.
recently, after i got some free tickets, i have finally gone through the einstein exposition, and what surprised me the most is my own resistance to learn anything about einstein. the exposition is done in a way that sets up his life in the social, historical and cultural contexts of his time. taking a look at this especially after having been in berlin just a few days ago did not fail to make an impression. still, the whole cult around one man does bother me, i just wonder why.
then it was that this morning on waking up there are some left over memories of having dreamt and that Mick Jagger, somedody's whose name i do know, but for whom i would not go out of the way to meet since i would not even recognize the "rolling stones" sounds even if they rolled me over at night, and as a male he is too scrawny looking for my tastes to say nothing that he and i might just as well be of different and incompatible species. waking up from a dream in that he and i were sharing a room and leading a workshop together was bizarre. more bizarre was how exicited i ended up being about the whole thing in the dream that had me sleep right through the whole thing. so while sleeping i dream about sleeping through an opportunity that others would have paid with their souls and fortune to have. that is indeed the nature of my identity; most of the time we do not give a swithering farthing about a whole lot of nothing. clearly i have given up on dream interpretation long ago, but have kept a certain knack for off the wall interpretations.
then i turn the page, and face my very own drama, and find myself intimately involved with a comedy. i know that i have no aspirations at being a playwright, but why would that surprise me? my whole life is one big stage of tragic-comedies on a low budget production, it bores me on occasions, entertains me on others, and above all, it is all so damned personal.
the poet wakes up from this deluge of feelings, irrationales, and emotions, and i find myself thinking of one of my muses, and then i find myself ready to give up all ties to that muse, like you give up the memory of that piece of bread that saved you from starvation way back when, before you could even form memories. the poet contradicts, the poet generates conflict, and the poet dances with life on a tight rope spanning hight above any reality ever conceived.
"perhaps it is a little injury reminding me of the very fragility of all life, perhaps it is my repressed desire for you, the man, the one that i find ugly, and while ugly, i find the man attractive, perhaps it is that i do not have a clue as to what i am doing. perhaps it is that i feel totally paralyzed and abandoned.
the little girl is that image that keeps recurring and disrupting any intentions that i have managed to formulate. it is a scene that neither goya or picasso had ever the need to represent, it is not pretty, it is not esthetic, it is not real. the little girl wants strong arms to protect her, kind ears to listen, she wants to know, and she is fully exposed, alone, always alone in the wind."
the phone rang, and my faithful friend is on the other side while i am in the middle of my drama. he asks how i am doing, and i start crying and exploring the verbal field for an explanation in my hurricane of humanity. i thought that i had started karate because i had no clue on how to hit, and now i start to suspect that what was there all along is the need to know how to hit. much frustration is repressed, there is much need to punch out something, or somebody, in some sense of another. the need is called the need for assertion. finally there is some answer to that question that has eluded me all along, the question of what to say, and what to keep your mouth shut about. still, i doubt that i have cracked that one question of what to share and what not to share. while he and i are talking, that thought from the events of last week crosses my mind, i dismiss going into the details, i mentioning the event itself. full disclosure seems pathetic at this point, i have bigger fish to fry, or so it seems. while on the phone i am cradled within safe arms, i repeat my sincere apology for being a total mess and one big heap of lamentations for the time being, my friend reassures me again and again. he opens that door of wonders, possibility, and he reminds me of my dreams.
take a few quantum leaps in logic, amalgamate it all with a good pinch of unrestrained fuzziness, and i find myself back on track.
"don't leave me now! "i tell my muse, i implore him... and then i look at him and i know that i have already left.
between a girl who died in infancy, and a bipolar boy, my parents were also blessed with a wayward child who refuses to grow up, me. how they deal with this, i take it to me none of my business. how i deal with my parents is however very much my own business.
recently, after i got some free tickets, i have finally gone through the einstein exposition, and what surprised me the most is my own resistance to learn anything about einstein. the exposition is done in a way that sets up his life in the social, historical and cultural contexts of his time. taking a look at this especially after having been in berlin just a few days ago did not fail to make an impression. still, the whole cult around one man does bother me, i just wonder why.
then it was that this morning on waking up there are some left over memories of having dreamt and that Mick Jagger, somedody's whose name i do know, but for whom i would not go out of the way to meet since i would not even recognize the "rolling stones" sounds even if they rolled me over at night, and as a male he is too scrawny looking for my tastes to say nothing that he and i might just as well be of different and incompatible species. waking up from a dream in that he and i were sharing a room and leading a workshop together was bizarre. more bizarre was how exicited i ended up being about the whole thing in the dream that had me sleep right through the whole thing. so while sleeping i dream about sleeping through an opportunity that others would have paid with their souls and fortune to have. that is indeed the nature of my identity; most of the time we do not give a swithering farthing about a whole lot of nothing. clearly i have given up on dream interpretation long ago, but have kept a certain knack for off the wall interpretations.
then i turn the page, and face my very own drama, and find myself intimately involved with a comedy. i know that i have no aspirations at being a playwright, but why would that surprise me? my whole life is one big stage of tragic-comedies on a low budget production, it bores me on occasions, entertains me on others, and above all, it is all so damned personal.
the poet wakes up from this deluge of feelings, irrationales, and emotions, and i find myself thinking of one of my muses, and then i find myself ready to give up all ties to that muse, like you give up the memory of that piece of bread that saved you from starvation way back when, before you could even form memories. the poet contradicts, the poet generates conflict, and the poet dances with life on a tight rope spanning hight above any reality ever conceived.
"perhaps it is a little injury reminding me of the very fragility of all life, perhaps it is my repressed desire for you, the man, the one that i find ugly, and while ugly, i find the man attractive, perhaps it is that i do not have a clue as to what i am doing. perhaps it is that i feel totally paralyzed and abandoned.
the little girl is that image that keeps recurring and disrupting any intentions that i have managed to formulate. it is a scene that neither goya or picasso had ever the need to represent, it is not pretty, it is not esthetic, it is not real. the little girl wants strong arms to protect her, kind ears to listen, she wants to know, and she is fully exposed, alone, always alone in the wind."
the phone rang, and my faithful friend is on the other side while i am in the middle of my drama. he asks how i am doing, and i start crying and exploring the verbal field for an explanation in my hurricane of humanity. i thought that i had started karate because i had no clue on how to hit, and now i start to suspect that what was there all along is the need to know how to hit. much frustration is repressed, there is much need to punch out something, or somebody, in some sense of another. the need is called the need for assertion. finally there is some answer to that question that has eluded me all along, the question of what to say, and what to keep your mouth shut about. still, i doubt that i have cracked that one question of what to share and what not to share. while he and i are talking, that thought from the events of last week crosses my mind, i dismiss going into the details, i mentioning the event itself. full disclosure seems pathetic at this point, i have bigger fish to fry, or so it seems. while on the phone i am cradled within safe arms, i repeat my sincere apology for being a total mess and one big heap of lamentations for the time being, my friend reassures me again and again. he opens that door of wonders, possibility, and he reminds me of my dreams.
take a few quantum leaps in logic, amalgamate it all with a good pinch of unrestrained fuzziness, and i find myself back on track.
"don't leave me now! "i tell my muse, i implore him... and then i look at him and i know that i have already left.
Technorati Tags: fluage
Thursday, 7 July 2005
july 6, montreal; july 7, london
wednesday started with a phone call from my brother to tell me that our uncle passed away on tuesday in montreal, canada. this uncle is our mother's youngest and only brother, he was six years older than i and we grew up in the same household. i have not seen or spoken with him for over twenty years, he is survived by three children whom i have never met.
either there is something that i do not want to know, or the death of a family member whom had somehow already been dead for many years, leaves me perturbed. indeed very perturbed, it left me.
the day would not be over until other bad news had arrived. but then to say that something is bad news, is to make a judgment about the news. more accurate would be to say that some facts got my attention, and that this awareness did not leave me feeling any comfort or peace.
wednesday concluded on a good note, with dinner with a dear friend of mine. i walked home from her house through the city in this rather cool summer night, and i was happy that i could do that and just concentrate on my walking, just feeling my feet hit the floor.
this morning it was my cousin that on IM tells me something about seeing what has happened in london; then i quickly pulled up my shrook, and saw the blogs and rss news feeds just explode with the news of the explosions. eventually i got to the bbc and the guardian sites. i wish i had been there, and it is not the first time that i wish i had been dead. by the time i tried to reach one of my cousins in london, the mobile networks had gone out, or were switched to emergency communications only. there was nothing that i could do other than wait for my cousins to give some signs of life.
ah... that i am not much into a blogging mood these days. there is much to tell, but i am a story writer, not a news reporter
either there is something that i do not want to know, or the death of a family member whom had somehow already been dead for many years, leaves me perturbed. indeed very perturbed, it left me.
the day would not be over until other bad news had arrived. but then to say that something is bad news, is to make a judgment about the news. more accurate would be to say that some facts got my attention, and that this awareness did not leave me feeling any comfort or peace.
wednesday concluded on a good note, with dinner with a dear friend of mine. i walked home from her house through the city in this rather cool summer night, and i was happy that i could do that and just concentrate on my walking, just feeling my feet hit the floor.
this morning it was my cousin that on IM tells me something about seeing what has happened in london; then i quickly pulled up my shrook, and saw the blogs and rss news feeds just explode with the news of the explosions. eventually i got to the bbc and the guardian sites. i wish i had been there, and it is not the first time that i wish i had been dead. by the time i tried to reach one of my cousins in london, the mobile networks had gone out, or were switched to emergency communications only. there was nothing that i could do other than wait for my cousins to give some signs of life.
ah... that i am not much into a blogging mood these days. there is much to tell, but i am a story writer, not a news reporter
Technorati Tags: abuse, cyborg, death, explosions, family, fluage, london, myth, terror
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