it is the way it is.
early this morning i got a mail from my brother with the declaration "have power again,"will bother you again later." long story, amusing, and on the grand scale of things, it is not even peanuts.
during the past week so much has happened while time stood still, that i really do not know where to begin.
after the morning aikido training, i went and met with "a man in black" and at one point he asks me "what do you need now to do what you want to do?"
i broke down in tears, and i told him what i really want right now. i told him what it was that i had had enough of, and that now i was very very clear as to what i wanted. i am also clear as to what i need now, although it could hardly be qualified as rational, and certainly it could be qualified as egoism. i really cried, tears rolled down my face, i had to remove my glasses, i could not see a thing, and i was generously crying in this man's office. happiness, sadness, joy? it was emotion pure. emotion is emotion. when i feel strongly about something, it is because i can feel; when the tears roll down my face is because that is the language of emotion. i can not relate to happiness, and i can not relate to sadness, yet i can fell. when i can not cry, i can not feel, nothing is more frustrating to me than the inability to feel, then i have the impression of being more than dead.
it started that he asked me how i am doing. i looked him in the eyes, handed him two envelopes, and mentioned the fact i was there, i have been worse, and i have been better. then our little interaction took not longer than fifteen minutes, his questions, my looking him straight in the face, and me gathering the courage to tell him what i have been brewing for the past few years. i uttered the words, and a weight lifted off my shoulders. emotion, tears, relief, others call this catharsis, i call it freedom. it is not that i know these things, it is that i declare them, and when i first saw the man in black, i said, that there was the man that i had been looking for all my life.
does this make any sense at all? tons, trillions of tons of sense.
I NEEDED A PLACE TO DEPOSIT MY FEELINGS WHILE I AM OUT MAKING DREAMS BE REALITY. THIS IS THE PLACE
it is also a place to thank all of those who express their love for me, not in a personal possessional way, but in a very generous and unconditional way. here goes thanks to my friends:
the photographer in heidelberg
the faithful friend in milano
the legalbrains friend in berne
the wonderful friend in zurich
the man in black
the legal genius in zug
the historian in berne
the playwright in paris
the partner in lausanne
the aikido master in new york
the muse in strasbourg
... and many many more, i just do not have code names for all, and most certainly i am not even going to mention first names.
in what there has been brewing in the past few years, besides those mentioned, those eclipsed, those unmentioned, and the family, there is also a special category, those who hate my guts, who all have provided invaluable input and opportunity.
it is indeed a rather sobering thought to come to terms with the fact that there are out there a few people, not many, who actually hate me. i think of three. two i met in california. i think they somehow meant well, but another fact is also that my being does not make for very digestible fodder for the the spirit, even if only in rare occasions.
Wednesday, 31 August 2005
Tuesday, 30 August 2005
it is my call
1. today i got asked if i would give a TV interview, i declined
2. yesterday i got asked if i would run for political office, today i declined
3. today i got asked a lot of things, i smiled a lot and said nothing
for an attention whore, i am deviating from the path
2. yesterday i got asked if i would run for political office, today i declined
3. today i got asked a lot of things, i smiled a lot and said nothing
for an attention whore, i am deviating from the path
Technorati Tags: floue
today...
today i came to realize how very fortunate i am.
i started today by not really feeling very well about all in my life, really all. i made a list of people that i feel have rejected me in some way, i looked at that list and realized that the one not figuring in the list is one who gives more thought to my existence than i care for. i certainly have rejected him. then i went down the drama queen path... this did not work, that is not working, this is no good, then one article i submitted got rejected. for an attention whore, it was devastating. feeling like a total blighted failure has its therapeutic value somehow.
early in the morning i got a call to inform me about the procedure for lending a helping hand to my neighbors who have been victims of the floods in the matte. the matte neighborhood, just a few meters from this place looks like a muddy ghost town now that the waters have receded, but the clean up work ahead is not to be underestimated, and it has just began. before i walked the few steps towards the catastrophe area, i gave an old friend in germany a call.
this old friend of mine in heidelberg, germany is a photographer, the father of two wonderful boys, and the kind of guy with whom i can and will talk about anything. i call him when i think that there is a major existential disaster in life, but not only. today was the second time that i felt my call was one of those existential ones, and that i would be asking him what i am doing on this earth, and that he would have the answer. last time i gave him such a call i was in portugal, and i was at the end of my own wits, i just did not know which way to turn, and i needed to be able to talk to somebody whom i trusted and could listen to. that was about ten years ago. statistically speaking one could say that my existential anxiety calls to heidelberg happen every ten years. so far so good.
i get on the phone and call heidelberg before breaking out to go give a hand down in the matte. his wife answers, we say hello, and he is on the phone before i have a chance of asking how she is doing. so, i ask him how she is doing, and i was not quite ready for the answer. the minute that i heard what they were dealing with, then i got pulled into reality, another's reality, cancer. for the past five years they have been battling cancer, i knew this, but we had not spoken with each other for a few months. much can happen in a couple of months when it comes to cancer, and hers has reappeared, new metastasis, and she needs to have surgery within the next week. rude as it was, it brought me down to earth and kicked the drama queen into hyper-space.
when i got down to the matte, sobriety had kicked in. i slipped into some blue worker overall clothes, grabbed a pair of gloves, and went to help out some neighbors in clearing their cellars. the house that i got dispatched to had its cellar full with water up to the ceiling. it took some restrain to develop compassion with one woman who was bitching about her daughter's past school work relics being totally destroyed. here i am volunteering my time to help out, and this woman ranting about all the crap that she now has to throw away somehow seemed displaced, so i reminded her that she was alive and all her family and for that fact all in that neighborhood had survived the catastrophe without injury or loss of life. she came to her senses, and stopped trying to salvage soggy old paper and got expedient with the clearing of her cellar.
i was dispatched to go help her neighbor, but at that point, i got busy and made myself useful. the house was without power, parts of the cellar are still flooded, the underground garages too, and trash bins were nowhere to be seen. all of a sudden having a mobile phone in one's pocket is indeed a useful thing, trash bins needed to organized, so i got busy calling the city. then i helped this man clear out his cellar, and then it was my turn to really feel sorry for all the good bottles of wine and spirits that he had stashed away in his cellar and that were now, in all likelihood tainted with flood water. between the insurance claim inspectors, the residents and office employees cleaning and clearing out their cellars and what had once been their offices, the civil protection officers, the police and the volunteers, the place was actually a lively place, and the devastation is hard to grasp. this is switzerland, and if there is one thing about the swiss, that is that they have insurance for everything and anything. so although the loss is real, it is all material loss, and just about anybody had the proper insurance.
still what gets me is that this has happened a few steps away from my front door, and it is really difficult to grasp. the berne matte neighborhood feels like a muddy ghost town in the evening hours. at a distance, it all looks fine, then you look close, then you start to realize that there is a whole lot of work to be done before the place is habitable again. some older building' statics may have been weakened to the point that the houses are inhabitable, within the next few days the engineer corps will be doing their work, and as the buildings are declared safe, then the people can start to clean up and return. the building where i was today is a relatively new and modern concrete construction, it is also the one that was most exposed to the river's torrential waters. i get the buzz on the hurricane katrina hitting by new orleans, and it is difficult to relate. over one thousand of my neighbors get affected by a natural catastrophe, and it seems like nothing happened while some news reports make headlines with swiss capital submerged.
the day was not over yet, not yet. after a good dose of reality, there comes another one. the mobile rings, and i miss the call. i get a message that i have 3 missed calls. then the fixed line rings in the office, it is my faithful friend calling from milano, italy the one who worries about me. again, what is this thing that gets into my head and makes me think that people are rejecting me?
nothing is new. i am the same old arrogant bitch as ever, and sometimes i make myself useful.
i started today by not really feeling very well about all in my life, really all. i made a list of people that i feel have rejected me in some way, i looked at that list and realized that the one not figuring in the list is one who gives more thought to my existence than i care for. i certainly have rejected him. then i went down the drama queen path... this did not work, that is not working, this is no good, then one article i submitted got rejected. for an attention whore, it was devastating. feeling like a total blighted failure has its therapeutic value somehow.
early in the morning i got a call to inform me about the procedure for lending a helping hand to my neighbors who have been victims of the floods in the matte. the matte neighborhood, just a few meters from this place looks like a muddy ghost town now that the waters have receded, but the clean up work ahead is not to be underestimated, and it has just began. before i walked the few steps towards the catastrophe area, i gave an old friend in germany a call.
this old friend of mine in heidelberg, germany is a photographer, the father of two wonderful boys, and the kind of guy with whom i can and will talk about anything. i call him when i think that there is a major existential disaster in life, but not only. today was the second time that i felt my call was one of those existential ones, and that i would be asking him what i am doing on this earth, and that he would have the answer. last time i gave him such a call i was in portugal, and i was at the end of my own wits, i just did not know which way to turn, and i needed to be able to talk to somebody whom i trusted and could listen to. that was about ten years ago. statistically speaking one could say that my existential anxiety calls to heidelberg happen every ten years. so far so good.
i get on the phone and call heidelberg before breaking out to go give a hand down in the matte. his wife answers, we say hello, and he is on the phone before i have a chance of asking how she is doing. so, i ask him how she is doing, and i was not quite ready for the answer. the minute that i heard what they were dealing with, then i got pulled into reality, another's reality, cancer. for the past five years they have been battling cancer, i knew this, but we had not spoken with each other for a few months. much can happen in a couple of months when it comes to cancer, and hers has reappeared, new metastasis, and she needs to have surgery within the next week. rude as it was, it brought me down to earth and kicked the drama queen into hyper-space.
when i got down to the matte, sobriety had kicked in. i slipped into some blue worker overall clothes, grabbed a pair of gloves, and went to help out some neighbors in clearing their cellars. the house that i got dispatched to had its cellar full with water up to the ceiling. it took some restrain to develop compassion with one woman who was bitching about her daughter's past school work relics being totally destroyed. here i am volunteering my time to help out, and this woman ranting about all the crap that she now has to throw away somehow seemed displaced, so i reminded her that she was alive and all her family and for that fact all in that neighborhood had survived the catastrophe without injury or loss of life. she came to her senses, and stopped trying to salvage soggy old paper and got expedient with the clearing of her cellar.
i was dispatched to go help her neighbor, but at that point, i got busy and made myself useful. the house was without power, parts of the cellar are still flooded, the underground garages too, and trash bins were nowhere to be seen. all of a sudden having a mobile phone in one's pocket is indeed a useful thing, trash bins needed to organized, so i got busy calling the city. then i helped this man clear out his cellar, and then it was my turn to really feel sorry for all the good bottles of wine and spirits that he had stashed away in his cellar and that were now, in all likelihood tainted with flood water. between the insurance claim inspectors, the residents and office employees cleaning and clearing out their cellars and what had once been their offices, the civil protection officers, the police and the volunteers, the place was actually a lively place, and the devastation is hard to grasp. this is switzerland, and if there is one thing about the swiss, that is that they have insurance for everything and anything. so although the loss is real, it is all material loss, and just about anybody had the proper insurance.
still what gets me is that this has happened a few steps away from my front door, and it is really difficult to grasp. the berne matte neighborhood feels like a muddy ghost town in the evening hours. at a distance, it all looks fine, then you look close, then you start to realize that there is a whole lot of work to be done before the place is habitable again. some older building' statics may have been weakened to the point that the houses are inhabitable, within the next few days the engineer corps will be doing their work, and as the buildings are declared safe, then the people can start to clean up and return. the building where i was today is a relatively new and modern concrete construction, it is also the one that was most exposed to the river's torrential waters. i get the buzz on the hurricane katrina hitting by new orleans, and it is difficult to relate. over one thousand of my neighbors get affected by a natural catastrophe, and it seems like nothing happened while some news reports make headlines with swiss capital submerged.
the day was not over yet, not yet. after a good dose of reality, there comes another one. the mobile rings, and i miss the call. i get a message that i have 3 missed calls. then the fixed line rings in the office, it is my faithful friend calling from milano, italy the one who worries about me. again, what is this thing that gets into my head and makes me think that people are rejecting me?
nothing is new. i am the same old arrogant bitch as ever, and sometimes i make myself useful.
Technorati Tags: 2005, bern, berne, clean-up, katrina, matte, natural disaster, news, preception, swissbloggers, switzerland
Monday, 29 August 2005
hiroshima mon amour
hiroshima mon amour
Originally uploaded by intutum.
it is another sememster that is starting, it is another joy ride down the path of not having any plans other than to survive, he said while she absently wondered why the grass is never green on any side.
Sunday, 28 August 2005
the whore is dead
first i gave it life. the whore had been denied its rightful existence all along the proper, prim and sensuous intellectual raised in the sheltered ignorance of hypocrisy. she, the woman, the one that wore an abbaya and lived up to the tales of all that goes beyond the black cloth and the veil, she killed the whore. it is one hell of a long story, and it is the story that i am writing, not here, not on this blog, not online. that whore keeps on rising from the ashes, it thinks it is a phenix when all it is, is a whore, i mean, a vulture. but what do you really know about vultures, and what do you really know about whores?
it could be that the whore is dead, and then it could be that she is alive and well, a master of disguise and manipulation, she prowls ready for an inflamed attack of whatever it is that tears her apart every once in a while, and then it could simply be that the world is totally fucked up, and it is time to surrender, and fuck it up a bit more.
the whore is that "it" whom you seduced with tender kisses and sweet nothings whispered as implicit desires and explicit erections. the whore is that that before it had forgotten your sweet kisses, let itself be devoured by a too anxious, furious and too proper compatriot of the married-too-long kind. who is the whore? where are the real whores? i do want to meet a real one. will the real whores stand up?
it, would it be real, is whoring a progression of delusion?
but you, you the righteous, truth seeking, over-enlightened pseudo-all, real-nothing, your ears are ringing because you can not fuck the real whore. nobody can, and you thought that you were the almighty, the powerful, the master, the teacher!
the whore smiled at you one day, dressed in black, wearing a silk black belt, and claiming ignorance of the arts, the whore seduces with all the powers that satan has been seeking for bisllennia, and you, you succumbed. you wanted to know more, you want that sweetness of being so godly fucked up. ecstasy is just one hell of a bitch.
i killed the whore.
disclaimer: those familiar with my fiction prose under any byline shall not fear, all the characters in this piece are the result of my weak imagination. if by any chance any of these characters remotely resembles any living human whom you might know more or less intimately, dead, alive, or otherwise tettigoniid, well, bad luck. shit happens all the time.
it could be that the whore is dead, and then it could be that she is alive and well, a master of disguise and manipulation, she prowls ready for an inflamed attack of whatever it is that tears her apart every once in a while, and then it could simply be that the world is totally fucked up, and it is time to surrender, and fuck it up a bit more.
the whore is that "it" whom you seduced with tender kisses and sweet nothings whispered as implicit desires and explicit erections. the whore is that that before it had forgotten your sweet kisses, let itself be devoured by a too anxious, furious and too proper compatriot of the married-too-long kind. who is the whore? where are the real whores? i do want to meet a real one. will the real whores stand up?
it, would it be real, is whoring a progression of delusion?
but you, you the righteous, truth seeking, over-enlightened pseudo-all, real-nothing, your ears are ringing because you can not fuck the real whore. nobody can, and you thought that you were the almighty, the powerful, the master, the teacher!
the whore smiled at you one day, dressed in black, wearing a silk black belt, and claiming ignorance of the arts, the whore seduces with all the powers that satan has been seeking for bisllennia, and you, you succumbed. you wanted to know more, you want that sweetness of being so godly fucked up. ecstasy is just one hell of a bitch.
i killed the whore.
disclaimer: those familiar with my fiction prose under any byline shall not fear, all the characters in this piece are the result of my weak imagination. if by any chance any of these characters remotely resembles any living human whom you might know more or less intimately, dead, alive, or otherwise tettigoniid, well, bad luck. shit happens all the time.
Technorati Tags: fluage
Friday, 26 August 2005
normally insane life and the president
note that this post has in part also been published in "random democratic parallax." there is no link on the sidebar to it either, you can google, or clusty for it, but whatever you do, do use the quote marks, it does make one hell of a difference in what kind of results you get. yes, i am not too lazy to insert links, i just get bored doing it. do you want to know more? ask!
no, here there are no ambitions to become the president of any nation. still i am starting to deal with the reality that i am the president in a few little things that i do. actually i have surprised myself with the ease that spontaneously came over me in deciding to let out a press release to the local media.
between tuesday and wednesday, during a period of 48 hours, i got 4 hours of sleep, and yesterday evening, my face did not show any signs of the abuse, but today my whole body is telling me that i have over done it. i will never understand my face, and my body tends to keep me honest.
on wednesday my son returned to los angeles after being in good old switzerland for ten weeks. he arrived safely. to date, this was the hardest separation i have had from him, and we have had a few rough ones, especially when he was in boarding school, and hated me for leaving him there. this one was emotionally taxing on me. he is a lot like me, and then there is a world of difference, he as an individual is a stranger. i had not quite seen this one coming, although it could be that all the signs were there. for the past two weeks the both of us were on edge. i for my part have plenty of issues to keep me on edge, so i was not paying too much attention to the fact that i feel a bit off. i did notice that he was a bit more impatient than usual, but then, being 21 is not always a picnic.
i keep on having a permanent identity crisis, and somehow i feel that this week went to the dogs. i did a few of the things that i needed to do, not all. i had phone conversations that i somehow did not care to have. above all i made one decision, one that will give me something to chew on for the next few months. this thing with entropy sometimes does get me. i do spend a lot of time just containing entropy, and preventing total diffusion, absolute dispersion, and total oblivion. it does bother me that somehow we are never really content! we eat one good meal, and then within hours, we are hungry again... rats! forget the cure for cancer, get me the cure for hunger!
then to add insult to injury, the house keeps on getting in a state of disarray. i take off my clothes, put them on a chair, and then nothing happens, they just stay there. then i wear something else, given my forays into the kitchen, eventually these too get dirty, and join the others on the chair, once again, they stay there, mute, silent, pathetically inactive! could they not get themselves washed and ironed?
but the worse is the kitchen sink! and here we are: the dishes just won't do themselves. why not? forget it, i do not have a dishwasher in this place. remember, this is a pied-à-terre, my office, my atelier, and given that my house is a bit too far for a commute, well, i sleep here most nights. now, am i talking about the blog or the kitchen? go figure, i gave up long long ago.
this is where i drifted off into politics, and ended up posting this in "random democratic parallax"....
i was at an event with one of our federal councilors yesterday and somehow i do not envy the man's job. he has to smile politely and control his mimic while some total retarded swiss democrat goes into xenophobic rhetoric! in contrast, i think my life is a piece of cake compared to the federal councilor's. on leaving the event, i congratulated him on his capable argumentation, and i got a thank you and one of those looks that i could only interpret as "i wish i could just walk away from this one too." but he can not, much is at stake, the swiss are again voting on september 25 on a referendum about this bit of extending the labor market opening to the new EU member states. remember before last may, there were 15, now they added 10. the swiss wrangled this bilateral agreement out of brussels and then, because the swiss are more democratic than the greeks ever dream up of being. a small vociferous polarizing and populist minority can pool together enough signatures to call for a referendum on an issue that could totally throw overboard the bilateral agreements if rejected. it is easy to say no politically, although at the personal level most people only know how to say yes, but then what do you have when the whole construct of bilateralism collapses on itself because... of what?
let me explain this. if the swiss vote NO on the referendum in september, then the EU can, and most likely will, revoke all the dossiers of the bilateral agreement. business will be quick to react, and they will move to the EU as not to have to deal with the burden of all of a sudden having to deal with rules and regulations that increase the cost of operations to the point that the view of the alps, the sparkling water in the lakes, and the chocolate became a luxury that they can not afford. i wonder how fidel castro manages to operate his country in total isolation, but i suspect that soon the swiss government will be paying him a visit, and ask for advice. the almighty knows, they will need it. this is progress in helvetia.
but the week was not over yet. i spent the day meeting a deadline, i do hope the editor appreciates my efforts.
getting back to my life. the weeks with my son were great, still he absorbed more space and time than i seem to have available. i am either getting stingy, or cranky or both, and i am not sure that this is related to old age. i have had a pulled muscle on my left arm for the past three months, and that in itself does make me rather cranky. the dojo in the matte is flooded, i have one less outlet for my frustrations, the punch bag. given that i am a glutton, well no aikido this week either. i think that i am in love, but do not ask with what or whom, however i think it would be wiser to take my temperature.
and then i turn around think of the man with the angel's name, and i know that insanity is my only anchor.
no, here there are no ambitions to become the president of any nation. still i am starting to deal with the reality that i am the president in a few little things that i do. actually i have surprised myself with the ease that spontaneously came over me in deciding to let out a press release to the local media.
between tuesday and wednesday, during a period of 48 hours, i got 4 hours of sleep, and yesterday evening, my face did not show any signs of the abuse, but today my whole body is telling me that i have over done it. i will never understand my face, and my body tends to keep me honest.
on wednesday my son returned to los angeles after being in good old switzerland for ten weeks. he arrived safely. to date, this was the hardest separation i have had from him, and we have had a few rough ones, especially when he was in boarding school, and hated me for leaving him there. this one was emotionally taxing on me. he is a lot like me, and then there is a world of difference, he as an individual is a stranger. i had not quite seen this one coming, although it could be that all the signs were there. for the past two weeks the both of us were on edge. i for my part have plenty of issues to keep me on edge, so i was not paying too much attention to the fact that i feel a bit off. i did notice that he was a bit more impatient than usual, but then, being 21 is not always a picnic.
i keep on having a permanent identity crisis, and somehow i feel that this week went to the dogs. i did a few of the things that i needed to do, not all. i had phone conversations that i somehow did not care to have. above all i made one decision, one that will give me something to chew on for the next few months. this thing with entropy sometimes does get me. i do spend a lot of time just containing entropy, and preventing total diffusion, absolute dispersion, and total oblivion. it does bother me that somehow we are never really content! we eat one good meal, and then within hours, we are hungry again... rats! forget the cure for cancer, get me the cure for hunger!
then to add insult to injury, the house keeps on getting in a state of disarray. i take off my clothes, put them on a chair, and then nothing happens, they just stay there. then i wear something else, given my forays into the kitchen, eventually these too get dirty, and join the others on the chair, once again, they stay there, mute, silent, pathetically inactive! could they not get themselves washed and ironed?
but the worse is the kitchen sink! and here we are: the dishes just won't do themselves. why not? forget it, i do not have a dishwasher in this place. remember, this is a pied-à-terre, my office, my atelier, and given that my house is a bit too far for a commute, well, i sleep here most nights. now, am i talking about the blog or the kitchen? go figure, i gave up long long ago.
this is where i drifted off into politics, and ended up posting this in "random democratic parallax"....
i was at an event with one of our federal councilors yesterday and somehow i do not envy the man's job. he has to smile politely and control his mimic while some total retarded swiss democrat goes into xenophobic rhetoric! in contrast, i think my life is a piece of cake compared to the federal councilor's. on leaving the event, i congratulated him on his capable argumentation, and i got a thank you and one of those looks that i could only interpret as "i wish i could just walk away from this one too." but he can not, much is at stake, the swiss are again voting on september 25 on a referendum about this bit of extending the labor market opening to the new EU member states. remember before last may, there were 15, now they added 10. the swiss wrangled this bilateral agreement out of brussels and then, because the swiss are more democratic than the greeks ever dream up of being. a small vociferous polarizing and populist minority can pool together enough signatures to call for a referendum on an issue that could totally throw overboard the bilateral agreements if rejected. it is easy to say no politically, although at the personal level most people only know how to say yes, but then what do you have when the whole construct of bilateralism collapses on itself because... of what?
let me explain this. if the swiss vote NO on the referendum in september, then the EU can, and most likely will, revoke all the dossiers of the bilateral agreement. business will be quick to react, and they will move to the EU as not to have to deal with the burden of all of a sudden having to deal with rules and regulations that increase the cost of operations to the point that the view of the alps, the sparkling water in the lakes, and the chocolate became a luxury that they can not afford. i wonder how fidel castro manages to operate his country in total isolation, but i suspect that soon the swiss government will be paying him a visit, and ask for advice. the almighty knows, they will need it. this is progress in helvetia.
but the week was not over yet. i spent the day meeting a deadline, i do hope the editor appreciates my efforts.
getting back to my life. the weeks with my son were great, still he absorbed more space and time than i seem to have available. i am either getting stingy, or cranky or both, and i am not sure that this is related to old age. i have had a pulled muscle on my left arm for the past three months, and that in itself does make me rather cranky. the dojo in the matte is flooded, i have one less outlet for my frustrations, the punch bag. given that i am a glutton, well no aikido this week either. i think that i am in love, but do not ask with what or whom, however i think it would be wiser to take my temperature.
and then i turn around think of the man with the angel's name, and i know that insanity is my only anchor.
Technorati Tags: bern, berne, bilateral, blog, eu, european union, life, politics, referendum, swissbloggers, swissfrancs, switzerland
update on the floods in berne (matte)
1. my house and feet are nicely dry, the floods are a few meters below.
2. the water level is dropping, but i do not know exactly where things stand since i was in the office all day.
3. i did not hear any helicopters today
2. the water level is dropping, but i do not know exactly where things stand since i was in the office all day.
3. i did not hear any helicopters today
Wednesday, 24 August 2005
flooded matte by night
right there, down there, just a few meters from the flooded dojo, that is where my aare beach is. it is a pebble beach. last fall i took a whole series of shots week after week from that spot. i have not looked at the oficial numbers but the water has risen more than a meter. most of the residents have been evacuated, by either boat or by helicopter.
Tuesday, 23 August 2005
the aare at the flood gates
it is incredible to me that just a few meters away from where i sit, the aare has jumped out of its bed and gone into the cellars in the lower parts of town, the matte and the altenberg are the most adversely affected. all day long i have been hearing the rega helicopters just a few meters away in their rescue missions.
thanks for those who called. we are fine, that is, our feet are dry. the rest is a long story.
thanks for those who called. we are fine, that is, our feet are dry. the rest is a long story.
the neutral usual
yesterday my legal brains friend invited me to join him at his health club for a round of jacuzzi and steam bath. the health club is not the place to find me, unless i am in the middle east, or traveling. on the other hand, turkish baths, steam rooms, saunas and jacuzzis are an all together different matter, i like those.
on the way to meet my friend i got a phone call, a call that i had hoped would happen, and while crossing the kornhaus bridge i was having a rather pleasant chat with an architect a few kilometers away. i looked down the bridge and i could not believe my eyes, the river aare had jumped over the river bed, the path that i usually jog on was flooded, but worse, so are all the cellars in the lower part of bern next to the river, the area usually called the "matte." i really do not know why this would have surprised me. during the day i got two emails that ought to have alerted me. one was from a friend in the usa that sent me several photos with a title "it's a crazy world," it included images of the fires in portugal and the flooded matte. now, fires and floods happen regularly on both of those places, so i thought nothing of it. the second email was from the technical director of the karate dojo, and she tells us that the dojo is flooded and the water is almost up to the window sill. i read that, acknowledged the consequence that on tuesday and wednesday there would be no training, and kept going. well, the matte floods every once in a while, and than is always when i am glad that i have my place a few meters higher. yes, i went through my news aggregator yesterday, but swiss newspapers have yet to discover rss feeds, and i rely mostly on the international press, and had seen nothing of what was going on. that is not entirely true, i had basically failed to realize that the town in which i live is flooded in spite of the fact that i had all the information available. oblivious to all, she continues. duh.
on another note, it seems to me that if a few swiss residents in the lower part of the helvetic capital get their cellars flooded, the rest of the world, and europe do not particularly care. i saw no obvious mention of it in the bbc, nyt, the guardian or the ft. swiss irrelevancy goes rather well with swiss modesty, one could call it swiss neutrality.
update 24.08.2005: BBC NEWS | Europe | Floods sweep across Switzerland: Floods sweep across Switzerland
Le Monde.fr : La Suisse, l'Autriche, l'Allemagne et la Bulgarie sous les eaux: La Suisse, l'Autriche, l'Allemagne et la Bulgarie sous les eaux
(look at dateline)
on the way to meet my friend i got a phone call, a call that i had hoped would happen, and while crossing the kornhaus bridge i was having a rather pleasant chat with an architect a few kilometers away. i looked down the bridge and i could not believe my eyes, the river aare had jumped over the river bed, the path that i usually jog on was flooded, but worse, so are all the cellars in the lower part of bern next to the river, the area usually called the "matte." i really do not know why this would have surprised me. during the day i got two emails that ought to have alerted me. one was from a friend in the usa that sent me several photos with a title "it's a crazy world," it included images of the fires in portugal and the flooded matte. now, fires and floods happen regularly on both of those places, so i thought nothing of it. the second email was from the technical director of the karate dojo, and she tells us that the dojo is flooded and the water is almost up to the window sill. i read that, acknowledged the consequence that on tuesday and wednesday there would be no training, and kept going. well, the matte floods every once in a while, and than is always when i am glad that i have my place a few meters higher. yes, i went through my news aggregator yesterday, but swiss newspapers have yet to discover rss feeds, and i rely mostly on the international press, and had seen nothing of what was going on. that is not entirely true, i had basically failed to realize that the town in which i live is flooded in spite of the fact that i had all the information available. oblivious to all, she continues. duh.
on another note, it seems to me that if a few swiss residents in the lower part of the helvetic capital get their cellars flooded, the rest of the world, and europe do not particularly care. i saw no obvious mention of it in the bbc, nyt, the guardian or the ft. swiss irrelevancy goes rather well with swiss modesty, one could call it swiss neutrality.
update 24.08.2005: BBC NEWS | Europe | Floods sweep across Switzerland: Floods sweep across Switzerland
Le Monde.fr : La Suisse, l'Autriche, l'Allemagne et la Bulgarie sous les eaux: La Suisse, l'Autriche, l'Allemagne et la Bulgarie sous les eaux
(look at dateline)
Technorati Tags: bern, berne, matte, puppy, switzerland
Sunday, 21 August 2005
being here
how am i, you asked. no, not hot to trot, not even hot, and can not trot. i sold the horse.
i had a good chat with one of my best friends on wednesday. he and i are about half way through a project that is demanding performance from us which neither has yet delivered. we are not in this alone, there are lots of people involved, and of course our friends, lovers and family are right there with us for better or worse. in order to survive this with any faint hope of coming out healthy, we have taken to weekly meetings where we assess our progress and talk openly and bluntly about what we are dealing with.
on this project what we are finding out is that when we work as intensively at reaching a high goal, then, the time for egoism hits high on the demand function, and we are left really wishing that those who supposedly would provide nurturance, that is, family, spouse, lovers, would be able to just listen to our ranting, just listen, not judge, not criticize, and above all, not take it in and make our intensity and occasional lack of rational, the source of a relationship crisis. we are damned egoists, it just isn't personal. in part we have this, and then again we do not have it, and the truth is that now we are rather demanding, we do not want any additional stress other than the one that we have imposed on ourselves, the stress of the egoist bent on reaching a goal. we do not have the time, and we make the time, we meet early in morning, at lunch time, on the train, or at the end of the day, and we pass review on accomplishments, targets, breakdowns, and frustrations of the week. he listens, i listen, we take turns, we ask each other what he needs now and then, we ask each other what is nagging, and we listen. we listen, and we ask questions. we both have something precious vested in each other. we are friends, best of friends, one of a kind, intimate friends. like all friendship, it is always one of a kind.
i can only speak for myself, and here what i feel is that his success is important to me. i wonder why? why would i be so interested in my best friend's success? i do not have much of an answer. i know just know that his success is important to me.
i walked through town on saturday, in the rain and in love. on saturday morning i spent what much have been an hour on the phone with a man i met recently, somebody whom i really do not know. it is wonderfully delightful to discover somebody new, to talk openly, to try to feel that other expression of being human, that other experience of existence on that side, and to touch base on what we share, what our dreams are. i shared with him what i had shared with my friend on wednesday about wishing to have a nurturing relationship where, yes a relationship is a place, we can just be ourselves with all our glory and all our shortcomings, where we are free to say what we need to say, and where we do not need to say anything, and either way the overflow or the absence of communication will not cause a relationship crisis. i found myself getting the same kind of agreement that i got on wednesday. i found it interesting that i get the same resonance from both a long term intimate friend and somebody whom i have barely met, and that the three of us have the same desires.
buoyed by a delightful morning conversation, warmed by a sprinkle of rain on a late summer afternoon i walked through town, and it looked different. i went to a café where i often go, had an expresso and read the paper. i found an interview with paul nizon that fascinated me. i ran out of the café and went and bought his latest novel das fell der forelle (translation: the trout's fur) and rushed to the next café to start reading it. i ordered a mineral water. sat there for a good hour, and then there comes in this fellow whom i have know for years through my involvement in politics. this means that he and i are members of the same party. i had not seen him for about two years, so there was a lot to catch up on, and we did not even touch on politics. we both wanted to read, and we agreed to first chat and then read while sitting at the same table. indeed much has changed, he has quit his not so shabby job with the federal government and is now doing research at the university and working on a doctorate. it is a small world, i know his thesis advisor well. this fellow and i do share something very peculiar, we are rather odd swiss nationals, he is a very dark mulatto born in switzerland, and i was not even born here but you can not tell this by the color of my skin. i imagine that this must have been quite an interesting scene to observe: he arrives and for a few minutes we engage in a rather animated dialogue, then i go back to my reading of paul nizon's novel, and he starts on his paper. we do this for a good hour, and then we chat again, say good bye. he leaves, a few minutes later i do the same. somehow the nicest things in life are all titled "no comment," she writes.
i had a good chat with one of my best friends on wednesday. he and i are about half way through a project that is demanding performance from us which neither has yet delivered. we are not in this alone, there are lots of people involved, and of course our friends, lovers and family are right there with us for better or worse. in order to survive this with any faint hope of coming out healthy, we have taken to weekly meetings where we assess our progress and talk openly and bluntly about what we are dealing with.
on this project what we are finding out is that when we work as intensively at reaching a high goal, then, the time for egoism hits high on the demand function, and we are left really wishing that those who supposedly would provide nurturance, that is, family, spouse, lovers, would be able to just listen to our ranting, just listen, not judge, not criticize, and above all, not take it in and make our intensity and occasional lack of rational, the source of a relationship crisis. we are damned egoists, it just isn't personal. in part we have this, and then again we do not have it, and the truth is that now we are rather demanding, we do not want any additional stress other than the one that we have imposed on ourselves, the stress of the egoist bent on reaching a goal. we do not have the time, and we make the time, we meet early in morning, at lunch time, on the train, or at the end of the day, and we pass review on accomplishments, targets, breakdowns, and frustrations of the week. he listens, i listen, we take turns, we ask each other what he needs now and then, we ask each other what is nagging, and we listen. we listen, and we ask questions. we both have something precious vested in each other. we are friends, best of friends, one of a kind, intimate friends. like all friendship, it is always one of a kind.
i can only speak for myself, and here what i feel is that his success is important to me. i wonder why? why would i be so interested in my best friend's success? i do not have much of an answer. i know just know that his success is important to me.
i walked through town on saturday, in the rain and in love. on saturday morning i spent what much have been an hour on the phone with a man i met recently, somebody whom i really do not know. it is wonderfully delightful to discover somebody new, to talk openly, to try to feel that other expression of being human, that other experience of existence on that side, and to touch base on what we share, what our dreams are. i shared with him what i had shared with my friend on wednesday about wishing to have a nurturing relationship where, yes a relationship is a place, we can just be ourselves with all our glory and all our shortcomings, where we are free to say what we need to say, and where we do not need to say anything, and either way the overflow or the absence of communication will not cause a relationship crisis. i found myself getting the same kind of agreement that i got on wednesday. i found it interesting that i get the same resonance from both a long term intimate friend and somebody whom i have barely met, and that the three of us have the same desires.
buoyed by a delightful morning conversation, warmed by a sprinkle of rain on a late summer afternoon i walked through town, and it looked different. i went to a café where i often go, had an expresso and read the paper. i found an interview with paul nizon that fascinated me. i ran out of the café and went and bought his latest novel das fell der forelle (translation: the trout's fur) and rushed to the next café to start reading it. i ordered a mineral water. sat there for a good hour, and then there comes in this fellow whom i have know for years through my involvement in politics. this means that he and i are members of the same party. i had not seen him for about two years, so there was a lot to catch up on, and we did not even touch on politics. we both wanted to read, and we agreed to first chat and then read while sitting at the same table. indeed much has changed, he has quit his not so shabby job with the federal government and is now doing research at the university and working on a doctorate. it is a small world, i know his thesis advisor well. this fellow and i do share something very peculiar, we are rather odd swiss nationals, he is a very dark mulatto born in switzerland, and i was not even born here but you can not tell this by the color of my skin. i imagine that this must have been quite an interesting scene to observe: he arrives and for a few minutes we engage in a rather animated dialogue, then i go back to my reading of paul nizon's novel, and he starts on his paper. we do this for a good hour, and then we chat again, say good bye. he leaves, a few minutes later i do the same. somehow the nicest things in life are all titled "no comment," she writes.
Technorati Tags: 2005, bern, books, café, freedom, friendship, lerougeetlemoir, life, literature, people
media, film and life
i just got out from seeing the film "the syrian bride."
the story is moving and touching, and for all that i know it reflects a lot of the reality of life in an area that is marked by conflict, regulations, bureaucracy, politics, and family life.
a friend of mine is fond of saying that the middle east conflict is very easy to understand, it is all about water, land and oil, he says. that is one way of looking at it, it does put it all into perspective, and each power that feels its power base threatened will use whatever means to keep the power.
as i write this, i am thinking that i can take it either towards the human side, the importance of family in that corner of the world, my own value of family, my own love for my family, and how in some ways do miss that part of the world that is so much in my blood. alternatively i could take the political criticism road. right now, i feel that it is not possible to separate the two.
a few ideas float around my head looking for appropriate expression:
1. state and religion have nothing to do with each other; religion is a private matter, not a state affair.
2. who ever thought that you can schizophrenize people to be different as a public servant from 8 to 5, than they are in their families the rest of the time and on holiday, does not have a brain, even if they have a university degree.
3. all each individual wants is a life of dignity, a life that he or she can live amidst its family and friends.
4. i am a very tribal thinking animal.
5. nationalism is a disease.
whatever you do, go see the film. it ain't hollywood.
the story is moving and touching, and for all that i know it reflects a lot of the reality of life in an area that is marked by conflict, regulations, bureaucracy, politics, and family life.
a friend of mine is fond of saying that the middle east conflict is very easy to understand, it is all about water, land and oil, he says. that is one way of looking at it, it does put it all into perspective, and each power that feels its power base threatened will use whatever means to keep the power.
as i write this, i am thinking that i can take it either towards the human side, the importance of family in that corner of the world, my own value of family, my own love for my family, and how in some ways do miss that part of the world that is so much in my blood. alternatively i could take the political criticism road. right now, i feel that it is not possible to separate the two.
a few ideas float around my head looking for appropriate expression:
1. state and religion have nothing to do with each other; religion is a private matter, not a state affair.
2. who ever thought that you can schizophrenize people to be different as a public servant from 8 to 5, than they are in their families the rest of the time and on holiday, does not have a brain, even if they have a university degree.
3. all each individual wants is a life of dignity, a life that he or she can live amidst its family and friends.
4. i am a very tribal thinking animal.
5. nationalism is a disease.
whatever you do, go see the film. it ain't hollywood.
Technorati Tags: film, golan heights, middle east, palestina, syria, religion, schizophrenia, tribe
Sunday, 14 August 2005
collateral fissure
it has been for quite a while, and it has started long long ago. now whichever way i turn it, the passion circles the object of desire like a vulture, in rapture it descends upon it and grips it with its ferociously amputated claws. i am the vulture, it is insanity. vultures are rather colorful birds with strange feathers, so am i.
the polyandrous bird of prey that i am, will have you in its claws, and then once grasped by the dreadful cavernous claws, what could possibly bring deliverance to that imaginary dead ruddle of yours?
nothing, absolutely nothing. not truth, not sense, not prayer, nothing will bring on deliverance, the vulture circles magnificently, and its claws lock and hold the mysteries of the universe of insanity.
i am getting so very tired of the first person, but then i am an actor, and actors speak as themselves in whatever role they assume. does this mean that i am getting tired of being an actor? that, i refuse to accept, i want to control the microcosms of your bowels and transgress the illusion of perfection and transparency. how can a vagrant lover like me even exist in this ethical mishmash of incertitude?
there is some dead writer, the only kind i seem to converse with these days, who were into free flow styles. they did lots of drugs, and i can not even deal with an aspirin, however morphine makes me feel dead and dries up the ink in my pen. so, how did they do it?
in this state of being clueless, with no idea how they did it, i remain still and silent. addiction and depression are always lurking, and seducing all idleness!
nonsense all of it. it is all nonsense. all plans have been changed, instead of going west, i am going east, and pray that i will be able to endure the trials of the next two months. my muse is a few kilometers southwest of here, and i know that madness is around the corner, while insanity has already firmly installed itself in my entrails. what is pleasure, i dared ask one day. he sat there silent, looked at me, and i knew that a vacuum had been created in the subterfuges of rationalization.
i meet a group of people who share interests, and i find myself just wanting to not deal with it. i sit there and watch myself, and i realize that once more i am dominating the table, and that i just may have different items on my agenda. i am getting slow with my impatience, and i share with these people my half rhymed thinking. i relax, the whole group relaxes. i tell myself, no! i said i was tired of leading. god, you must pray now because i really do not want any of this!
later i meet my nonjudgmental judge friend at the same restaurant, and he and his companion invite me for a glass of wine. we laugh, we laugh good and hard, we laugh because we want to cry about the illusion that creates so much suffering.
no deliverance!
no stigmata either. it is all very very simple. i have no power to fuck up anybody's mind, but i have all the power in the world to fuck up my own mind, that is my sole power besides my insistence on rehabilitating the declensions of the verb and noun "fuck."
[posted with ecto]
the polyandrous bird of prey that i am, will have you in its claws, and then once grasped by the dreadful cavernous claws, what could possibly bring deliverance to that imaginary dead ruddle of yours?
nothing, absolutely nothing. not truth, not sense, not prayer, nothing will bring on deliverance, the vulture circles magnificently, and its claws lock and hold the mysteries of the universe of insanity.
i am getting so very tired of the first person, but then i am an actor, and actors speak as themselves in whatever role they assume. does this mean that i am getting tired of being an actor? that, i refuse to accept, i want to control the microcosms of your bowels and transgress the illusion of perfection and transparency. how can a vagrant lover like me even exist in this ethical mishmash of incertitude?
there is some dead writer, the only kind i seem to converse with these days, who were into free flow styles. they did lots of drugs, and i can not even deal with an aspirin, however morphine makes me feel dead and dries up the ink in my pen. so, how did they do it?
in this state of being clueless, with no idea how they did it, i remain still and silent. addiction and depression are always lurking, and seducing all idleness!
nonsense all of it. it is all nonsense. all plans have been changed, instead of going west, i am going east, and pray that i will be able to endure the trials of the next two months. my muse is a few kilometers southwest of here, and i know that madness is around the corner, while insanity has already firmly installed itself in my entrails. what is pleasure, i dared ask one day. he sat there silent, looked at me, and i knew that a vacuum had been created in the subterfuges of rationalization.
i meet a group of people who share interests, and i find myself just wanting to not deal with it. i sit there and watch myself, and i realize that once more i am dominating the table, and that i just may have different items on my agenda. i am getting slow with my impatience, and i share with these people my half rhymed thinking. i relax, the whole group relaxes. i tell myself, no! i said i was tired of leading. god, you must pray now because i really do not want any of this!
later i meet my nonjudgmental judge friend at the same restaurant, and he and his companion invite me for a glass of wine. we laugh, we laugh good and hard, we laugh because we want to cry about the illusion that creates so much suffering.
no deliverance!
no stigmata either. it is all very very simple. i have no power to fuck up anybody's mind, but i have all the power in the world to fuck up my own mind, that is my sole power besides my insistence on rehabilitating the declensions of the verb and noun "fuck."
[posted with ecto]
Thursday, 11 August 2005
my life is a comedy, and i have a front row seat
if you let me count the ways, then it is clearly your fault that all that follows is absurd beyond desperation!
have you ever felt the impulse to just react?
i have a headache by now. the day brought a few surprises, none that i had ever given any thought to. in one outburst of my spontaneity i sent an e-mail across the atlantic to the ceo (yes, the chief executive officer) of a technology company that i have been keeping an eye on for several years. i did this because in using the gadgets that his brain shop produces, i had been confronted with a fact that knocked the socks off my something or other, thrilled my ego pink, and had me knowing exactly where i stood in all of this. the ceo e-mails me back although the last thing that i had expected was an answer. geek mutual appreciation must run deep. to get this e-mail was a very pleasant surprise, he wrote very nice things.
i was in zurich today for a not so official meeting, but one that interested me enough to get myself over there. getting to the building, a building where i am considering renting some office space in. i lost my way, and forgot where i was. i have been there several times, and i did manage to get myself all scrambled and muddled in my orientatin. i have a good excuse for this one. when i go to zurich, i either get picked up at the train station by a friend in his not so shabby german machina, or i take the tram/bus since i am much too cheap, or much too broke to bother taking a taxi. it was beyond me how i managed to really arrive a good half hour late in spite of adequate time planing. i consoled myself with the idea that i might be trying to make myself fashionably late, or at least i was trying to make an impression of sorts.
impulses and reactions, not actions.
sometimes what i write here is plain gibberish, and the only people besides myself, with any chance of deciphering a bit of it, are those who are rather close to me in this double, or triple, life of mine. let me count my lives. here the comedy starts. but wait, this is not unique is it?
do you know anybody who does not have one little secret, something that "nobody" knows, and that yet is a part, an integral part of that person's life? remember that there is no dress rehearsal, this is your life, it is happening now. i take it that this is also the same for me. that being as it is, there are some parts of my life that i keep very separate from other parts of the very same life; it is something along the lines of not letting the right hand know what the left hand does. strangely enough i know many others in the same predicament. of course we know that somehow bill clinton did not quite get away with it scot free... but, well, i am not the president of the parallaxed nation.
some have skeletons in the cellar, others have angels in the attic, most of us have just a muddle; that muddle is the secret something that "nobody" knows. "nobody" usually has a name, sometimes it is your lover.
what is the point? i don't know, i lost the thread of this one, it seems like i am back in zurich like this afternoon, looking for that building where i have been to before. scrambled.
while at the train station in zurich on the way back, a colleague rings, and asks a question that i could not answer. i apologize profusely, i know i ought to know, but it is not there. i hang up the phone, recall the answer. ring back. what did we do before mobile phones? what suffering!!!
i had a meeting scheduled for the train ride back to the capital. we had a few issues to discuss as we usually do on our weekly meetings, and what seems clear to me at this point, from the discussion, and a few other ruminations, is that one stops being a victim, when one stops making the others wrong for whatever crap is happening in one's life. making one self wrong for it, will also bring no enlightenment. how does it go?
the catholic blames himself, and is guilty of everything, the muslim blames the other, and knows no guilt, it is all in the hands of the almighty anyhow for both, and frankly the buddhist does not give a damn, he sits. not really. religion has always served as a good excuse for not going through the trouble of thought. however these days esotericism is replacing religion at an incredible rate, and nobody has a clue as to what they do believe in, so let's have a round of tarot, and do use pseudo feng shui to find the right spot for it. god forbid! but who is going to save god from bigotry?
there are two chimeras lose and on the prowl for unwitting well meaning people, their names are truth and transparency. some chase truth, others transparency, both kinds are infected. affectedly infected, that is.
i was at the art museum's café recently and the person who invited me there asked, if i felt like a victim of a few circumstances in my life. i looked at him, it is a pleasure to look at him, then i looked down to the counter, i smiled and turned around to him again, looked him in the eyes, and said, yes, i feel like a victim of my own actions. then he asked me something about pride, and he asked me something about depression. each time, i had to look at him, and smile, i like his questions. he knows that there are no right answers, and i feel no guilt, i just sit when i need to get my head clear. this happens very often, and i sit more and more.
last night a friend asked me about the state of my publications, and my writing. i found myself telling him that so far i have not written anything that is easily readable. my writing is dense, and full of nuances. my biggest challenge in the past ten months has been writing a story that is not so dense as some others that i have written. what drives me is wanting to have the story told, have it be understood for what it is. complex stuff is easy to write, simple writing is one supreme escalade that makes the challenge all the sweetest.
have you ever felt the power of seduction?
have you ever surrendered?
i remember a seven year old girl... in a far far away land...
have you ever felt the impulse to just react?
i have a headache by now. the day brought a few surprises, none that i had ever given any thought to. in one outburst of my spontaneity i sent an e-mail across the atlantic to the ceo (yes, the chief executive officer) of a technology company that i have been keeping an eye on for several years. i did this because in using the gadgets that his brain shop produces, i had been confronted with a fact that knocked the socks off my something or other, thrilled my ego pink, and had me knowing exactly where i stood in all of this. the ceo e-mails me back although the last thing that i had expected was an answer. geek mutual appreciation must run deep. to get this e-mail was a very pleasant surprise, he wrote very nice things.
i was in zurich today for a not so official meeting, but one that interested me enough to get myself over there. getting to the building, a building where i am considering renting some office space in. i lost my way, and forgot where i was. i have been there several times, and i did manage to get myself all scrambled and muddled in my orientatin. i have a good excuse for this one. when i go to zurich, i either get picked up at the train station by a friend in his not so shabby german machina, or i take the tram/bus since i am much too cheap, or much too broke to bother taking a taxi. it was beyond me how i managed to really arrive a good half hour late in spite of adequate time planing. i consoled myself with the idea that i might be trying to make myself fashionably late, or at least i was trying to make an impression of sorts.
impulses and reactions, not actions.
sometimes what i write here is plain gibberish, and the only people besides myself, with any chance of deciphering a bit of it, are those who are rather close to me in this double, or triple, life of mine. let me count my lives. here the comedy starts. but wait, this is not unique is it?
do you know anybody who does not have one little secret, something that "nobody" knows, and that yet is a part, an integral part of that person's life? remember that there is no dress rehearsal, this is your life, it is happening now. i take it that this is also the same for me. that being as it is, there are some parts of my life that i keep very separate from other parts of the very same life; it is something along the lines of not letting the right hand know what the left hand does. strangely enough i know many others in the same predicament. of course we know that somehow bill clinton did not quite get away with it scot free... but, well, i am not the president of the parallaxed nation.
some have skeletons in the cellar, others have angels in the attic, most of us have just a muddle; that muddle is the secret something that "nobody" knows. "nobody" usually has a name, sometimes it is your lover.
what is the point? i don't know, i lost the thread of this one, it seems like i am back in zurich like this afternoon, looking for that building where i have been to before. scrambled.
while at the train station in zurich on the way back, a colleague rings, and asks a question that i could not answer. i apologize profusely, i know i ought to know, but it is not there. i hang up the phone, recall the answer. ring back. what did we do before mobile phones? what suffering!!!
i had a meeting scheduled for the train ride back to the capital. we had a few issues to discuss as we usually do on our weekly meetings, and what seems clear to me at this point, from the discussion, and a few other ruminations, is that one stops being a victim, when one stops making the others wrong for whatever crap is happening in one's life. making one self wrong for it, will also bring no enlightenment. how does it go?
the catholic blames himself, and is guilty of everything, the muslim blames the other, and knows no guilt, it is all in the hands of the almighty anyhow for both, and frankly the buddhist does not give a damn, he sits. not really. religion has always served as a good excuse for not going through the trouble of thought. however these days esotericism is replacing religion at an incredible rate, and nobody has a clue as to what they do believe in, so let's have a round of tarot, and do use pseudo feng shui to find the right spot for it. god forbid! but who is going to save god from bigotry?
there are two chimeras lose and on the prowl for unwitting well meaning people, their names are truth and transparency. some chase truth, others transparency, both kinds are infected. affectedly infected, that is.
i was at the art museum's café recently and the person who invited me there asked, if i felt like a victim of a few circumstances in my life. i looked at him, it is a pleasure to look at him, then i looked down to the counter, i smiled and turned around to him again, looked him in the eyes, and said, yes, i feel like a victim of my own actions. then he asked me something about pride, and he asked me something about depression. each time, i had to look at him, and smile, i like his questions. he knows that there are no right answers, and i feel no guilt, i just sit when i need to get my head clear. this happens very often, and i sit more and more.
last night a friend asked me about the state of my publications, and my writing. i found myself telling him that so far i have not written anything that is easily readable. my writing is dense, and full of nuances. my biggest challenge in the past ten months has been writing a story that is not so dense as some others that i have written. what drives me is wanting to have the story told, have it be understood for what it is. complex stuff is easy to write, simple writing is one supreme escalade that makes the challenge all the sweetest.
have you ever felt the power of seduction?
have you ever surrendered?
i remember a seven year old girl... in a far far away land...
Technorati Tags: chimera, comedy, empty, fluage, transparency, truth
Wednesday, 10 August 2005
you called last night!
the strangest thing is that then i dreamt about you! this morning, i woke up with you.
it is lunch time, i have a short break. i have a ton of things to do.
but how many times must i repeat that this is not about you, not this blog, not this life of mine, not even your life is about you, or is it? who cares, who could possibly care?
i sometimes wonder what is better, being loved, or being hated?
yesterday i had a grand day, and certainly your call before i went to bed was the best. i did not expect it... i never expect that you call. remember how it all began? for me it was about expect nothing, and be ready for all.
yesterday i took actions that have the potential of changing my life beyond recognition, today there is sunshine and a train ride back home that will leave wondering once more about how lucky i am.
YES!
it is lunch time, i have a short break. i have a ton of things to do.
but how many times must i repeat that this is not about you, not this blog, not this life of mine, not even your life is about you, or is it? who cares, who could possibly care?
i sometimes wonder what is better, being loved, or being hated?
yesterday i had a grand day, and certainly your call before i went to bed was the best. i did not expect it... i never expect that you call. remember how it all began? for me it was about expect nothing, and be ready for all.
yesterday i took actions that have the potential of changing my life beyond recognition, today there is sunshine and a train ride back home that will leave wondering once more about how lucky i am.
YES!
Sunday, 7 August 2005
had a dream...
i am clearly spending too much time dwelling on the shape of my belly button!
i wake up this morning a bit startled by the fact that it was late, the cathedral bells were ringing, and i had spent the evening taking photos of musicians and the crowd at the street musical festival happening right outside my door, then out of the 700 or so odd shots picking a few to upload. but i wake up remembering a dream, it felt like a nightmare, it felt rather in context with the thoughts going through my mind these days, identity is one hell of a bitch!
i wake up this morning a bit startled by the fact that it was late, the cathedral bells were ringing, and i had spent the evening taking photos of musicians and the crowd at the street musical festival happening right outside my door, then out of the 700 or so odd shots picking a few to upload. but i wake up remembering a dream, it felt like a nightmare, it felt rather in context with the thoughts going through my mind these days, identity is one hell of a bitch!
Technorati Tags: fluage
Friday, 5 August 2005
once more
again...
ich bin der welt abhanden gekommen
i am not here,
i do not exist.
is it that i have lost my way?
this is about me, i wrote
i was wrong
this is not about you
truth eludes me
what would it be like, if it was not so?
i do not know
i do not want to know
i am defiance
i am resistance
i am empty
there is one truth
only one
this truth is infinite
it is all about you
i do not know
i could not care less about the concrete
i was never much for the specific
facts are facts
fiction is my reality
real is the air that i breathe
your kisses are a memory
memory seduces
i do not want seduction
i do not want pleasure
i do not want happiness
i do not want security
i do not want passion
ecstasy, i fear
ich bin der welt abhanden gekommen
i am not here,
i do not exist.
is it that i have lost my way?
this is about me, i wrote
i was wrong
this is not about you
truth eludes me
what would it be like, if it was not so?
i do not know
i do not want to know
i am defiance
i am resistance
i am empty
there is one truth
only one
this truth is infinite
it is all about you
i do not know
i could not care less about the concrete
i was never much for the specific
facts are facts
fiction is my reality
real is the air that i breathe
your kisses are a memory
memory seduces
i do not want seduction
i do not want pleasure
i do not want happiness
i do not want security
i do not want passion
ecstasy, i fear
Technorati Tags: exp, fluage, muse, out of context, quarteira, zoom
Thursday, 4 August 2005
notes on jihad: good and bad
some days all i want to be is to be good. really good. i want on these desperate days to fulfill every single expectation ever place on a human being, male or female.
i know of no other fail-proof way of making sure that i go through a complete mind fuck, than the very idea of wanting to be good, please all, and appease the crowds.
how would one accomplish the feat of being good?
it is a very seductive idea, and like many other seductive ideas, it leads through the path of debauchery, fanaticism, and extremism.
i can not be good, i can be myself, and true to my nature. good, no. existent, yes.
the nature of jihad is exactly the confrontation with the seductive powers of wanting to be good. unlike what the english language dictionaries occasionally claim, or the self proclaimed muslim leaders, it is not a holy war. no war is holy. war is war. war is brutal. war is path of debauchery, fanaticism, and extremism.
my jihad is the one that leads me to sit for hours on a zafu, and seek the silence of my stories. the mind is the ultimate weapon, learn to use it, learn to be its master.
i know of no other fail-proof way of making sure that i go through a complete mind fuck, than the very idea of wanting to be good, please all, and appease the crowds.
how would one accomplish the feat of being good?
it is a very seductive idea, and like many other seductive ideas, it leads through the path of debauchery, fanaticism, and extremism.
i can not be good, i can be myself, and true to my nature. good, no. existent, yes.
the nature of jihad is exactly the confrontation with the seductive powers of wanting to be good. unlike what the english language dictionaries occasionally claim, or the self proclaimed muslim leaders, it is not a holy war. no war is holy. war is war. war is brutal. war is path of debauchery, fanaticism, and extremism.
my jihad is the one that leads me to sit for hours on a zafu, and seek the silence of my stories. the mind is the ultimate weapon, learn to use it, learn to be its master.
Monday, 1 August 2005
it was late last night and the phone rang...
exhausted after a couple hours of running, preoccupied with all that i still had to do until tuesday, i was ready to just seek some rest and sleep.
the phone rang, the fixed line it was. only the insane and the privileged would ring my fixed line at that hour, the number is not even listed. it was a privileged calling from dhahran. the hot arabian days bring life into the cooler nights, the imaginations alight, and the heart grows fond of those whom on some occasion have shown kindness.
khobar, dammam and dhahran, ras tanura... the coast of the eastern province is missed by these eyes. the flat beaches of the gulf, the bleached out light, the unforgiving hot sun, the gentle breeze, all of this was present when i heard the sound of your voice again.
once i sat on the remnants of what could have been, at one time, a rudimentary pier, and looked into the clear water of the persian gulf and its inhabitants. a few tiny little crabs were busy crawling from one stone to the next, ignoring me all the while. i was happy to be ignored, it is good to be ignored by some little crab, busy with its life. i wondered then, and i wonder now, what is the difference between that crab and i?
i collected some small sea shells at that beach, i gave three to you. it was the only gift that i have ever given you. i have nothing that i can give you, not even hugs and kisses, not the tenderness of the night, nor the comforts of this life. i have nothing that i can give you. i hear your voice, i hear your laughter, i hear you talk about your sons, i hear you describe your house last night, less than 24 hours ago.
strange that what i would miss the most is to have those face to face conversations when we do not have to speak code or avoid censured subjects. what i remember the best is that after our shark encounter, when your hand touched mine, you felt nervous. sometimes i wonder in what film it was that you and i walked hand in hand by the water on the corniche?
i remember your rendition of the story of the postcards, i remember the postcards that i gave you, i remember the sunflower seeds in the pockets of your jeans, and the tassels on my abaya. the postcards were about loyalty, and the sea shells were about the insignificance of our existence.
in the desert, we planted this tender and delicate flower. it would have been so simple to let it die, but it is alive, it is strong, and it blossoms in the broad arabian summer. i have nothing to give you. life is simple, you say. right you are, i say.
i go back to those images of the years past, i fast forward to our phone conversation last night, and what remains is how blissfully naive we remain, innocent, simple, untainted by convention, unrestrained by experience, and loved by life.
imprinted by the arabian sand and untouched by wisdom, i wonder how this has come to be. you listen to my struggles, you read my prose at its best, you read my confessions at their worse, you listen when i do not make sense, you write to me every week, you surprise me with phone calls. you wrote the book, you did not need to read it.
remember that tender flower of ours? it is all that we share.
the phone rang, the fixed line it was. only the insane and the privileged would ring my fixed line at that hour, the number is not even listed. it was a privileged calling from dhahran. the hot arabian days bring life into the cooler nights, the imaginations alight, and the heart grows fond of those whom on some occasion have shown kindness.
khobar, dammam and dhahran, ras tanura... the coast of the eastern province is missed by these eyes. the flat beaches of the gulf, the bleached out light, the unforgiving hot sun, the gentle breeze, all of this was present when i heard the sound of your voice again.
once i sat on the remnants of what could have been, at one time, a rudimentary pier, and looked into the clear water of the persian gulf and its inhabitants. a few tiny little crabs were busy crawling from one stone to the next, ignoring me all the while. i was happy to be ignored, it is good to be ignored by some little crab, busy with its life. i wondered then, and i wonder now, what is the difference between that crab and i?
i collected some small sea shells at that beach, i gave three to you. it was the only gift that i have ever given you. i have nothing that i can give you, not even hugs and kisses, not the tenderness of the night, nor the comforts of this life. i have nothing that i can give you. i hear your voice, i hear your laughter, i hear you talk about your sons, i hear you describe your house last night, less than 24 hours ago.
strange that what i would miss the most is to have those face to face conversations when we do not have to speak code or avoid censured subjects. what i remember the best is that after our shark encounter, when your hand touched mine, you felt nervous. sometimes i wonder in what film it was that you and i walked hand in hand by the water on the corniche?
i remember your rendition of the story of the postcards, i remember the postcards that i gave you, i remember the sunflower seeds in the pockets of your jeans, and the tassels on my abaya. the postcards were about loyalty, and the sea shells were about the insignificance of our existence.
in the desert, we planted this tender and delicate flower. it would have been so simple to let it die, but it is alive, it is strong, and it blossoms in the broad arabian summer. i have nothing to give you. life is simple, you say. right you are, i say.
i go back to those images of the years past, i fast forward to our phone conversation last night, and what remains is how blissfully naive we remain, innocent, simple, untainted by convention, unrestrained by experience, and loved by life.
imprinted by the arabian sand and untouched by wisdom, i wonder how this has come to be. you listen to my struggles, you read my prose at its best, you read my confessions at their worse, you listen when i do not make sense, you write to me every week, you surprise me with phone calls. you wrote the book, you did not need to read it.
remember that tender flower of ours? it is all that we share.
Technorati Tags: fluage, ksa, persian gulf, politics, resistance
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