this buddha woke up on sunday morning before 5. nothing unusual, i was in bed before 10 in the evening. i spent the whole afternoon on saturday with a visiting friend from germany. we had lunch together, we walked in the old town , down to the altenbergsteg and up to the "rosengarten" and we had a few coffees (his latte, my expresso) while enjoying a fantastic view of the old town.
sunday was a strange and foreign day. i was in zurich by 9 in the morning and visited a friend. when i arrived at her doorstep, she was still in her nightgown in the kitchen applying glaze to a cake while her husband read a book in the sitting room. he has just gotten out of hospital for some rather annoying affliction that keeps him paying the hospital regular managing visits. i was happy to see them again. while my friend got under the shower and her husband went out shopping, their nine year old son and i had a good match of football on the hallway. i enjoyed the play so much, that i wondered who was the nine year old, or if for a while i was just not another tomboy...
brunch was rather a pleasant and enjoyable extended experience that we call brunch, but it seems that in spite of being awake, sunday eluded me, i was never quite up to the day. i returned to berne from zurich by five in the afternoon, and i could not do anything but crash on my bed and fall asleep for a few hours. when i woke up, i was still dazed, and am still dazed on wednesday afternoon.
while i keep on toying with the idea that people's faces are like confetti, all the same and none identical, i also keep on teasing the idea that we are built like infinite psychological onions. in this confetti world peeling through the layers of one's psychology seems to provide for continued entertainment. happiness is irrelevant, and satisfaction an animal of seven legs.
it could be that the visit of my german friend has once more overwhelmed me just a tad. it could also be that it is the discovery of that feeling of being overwhelmed that was ever so present in some of the conversations that we had in a still much too cold and sunny afternoon this past saturday. this time i felt different, whatever has shifted in my life, has really shifted. we sat over lunch in my kitchen and i listened to what is a most unfortunate turn of events in his life. some fifteen years ago when i first met him, i could never have imagined the scene that took place yesterday. fifteen years ago, i was in a similar situation to where he is now. i have been living in the belief that only i can screw up my own life that much, and that everybody else has it figured out. when i listen to his story, i also hear how very new and unimaginable the whole is for him, i hear shock, and i also hear powerlessness. that is what i hear, but then, i also know him to be strong, intelligent and a kind soul. eventually we go through the unraveling of these non-euclidean layers of our life' story, and i keep on wondering why on earth i have a rather persistent knack for torturing myself.
fear, another layer of fear that i could not have imagined was there. i am so tired of the crap! i just want to write... yet each and every story that i write wrings itself out of my own blood, sweat and tears.
