for a good example of what the internet can be used for and how difficult is is to establish veracity and identity in an e-mail click on the link below:
Urban Legends Reference Pages: Love (The Bryan Winter of our Discontent)
i got a bit distracted today when a friend of mine mailed me a petition to sign, and i went and checked it out. i know this person's enthusiasm and passion, but i also have been using the internet professionally ever since it was created and before there were these little charms of convenience called browsers and mail programs. i am aware that not all that shines is gold. i did the due diligence bit and checked out what was behind that petition, a quick query at trendmicro reveled the petition to be an hoax. i informed my friend. then i went to urban legends just for a quick look, if there is such thing, got distracted and discovered the story of Bryan Winter, one of those whose veracity has not been established.
this is really old stuff, but then so is the bible, the kaaba, and the pyramids, still, they all have stood the test of time in one way or another. the issue is one that is core to my blogging, the demarcation of that fine dividing line between private and public, and the distinction between fact and fiction. in civil society we have the so called personality rights to deal with some of these issues when it comes to privacy, and these ought to be taught in elementary school in all nations with a civil society. in terms of intellectual property, there is also much which one ought to know, and most of those that need to know, do know, still the internet makes publishing accessible to anybody, not just those in the traditional publishing world. with the tools available today on the internet, anybody with a connection to the web is a potential publisher. on this subject i will be writing at length elsewhere, and because of issues of privacy, it will not even be linked to this blog.
i first became aware that not all people can distinguish between fiction and fact this summer during the issuing controversy and polemic over Dan Brown's "the da Vinci code" when i experienced at least one cold fact loving neurosurgeon totally engrossed in the story and me looking at him with big eyes.
in conclusion, two of the great challenges of the open source movement are veracity, and identity which will be needing some innovation in both the way they are established, but also in the way that we think about them.
Tuesday, 30 November 2004
Monday, 29 November 2004
a letter to a friend
dearest!
i have been very absent from all, especially from this earth. if have not responded to your mails and messages is because there was nowhere where i could begin. i do not understand the process which i am going through these days, it is, at best, very odd.
i have tried calling you on a couple of occasions, either you are not home, or you are busy.
and then, if there is a name to the process that i am going through, it is surrender, but surrender at a level like i have not known before, nor that i could imagine. somehow it is as though my life is disappearing and i exist somewhere and somehow just serving the muses that pass through me. they write, i am just the instrument. i read the stuff that i write, and i wonder how i could write something like that. sometimes it flows, it is then quiet, and it feels like a drug. on a good day i do not know if i am going insane, totally insane, and ready for the clinic or if actually i am fulfilling my life's dream. frankly i do not even care to know which one, it does not make a difference as far i am concerned. this feels like drugs, or what i imagine that being on drugs is like.
there are no crazy and wild adventures in my life, although there are surprises almost each day.
i have my moments when i wish i was more of a functioning machine, and much less the possessed poet that i feel like i am turning... it is good to feel, to have feelings, to be sensitive, but then i have my days, when it all seems much too much... and i could do with a bit more numbness. wide awake at 3 am, has all of a sudden a totally different new meaning. i am ready to curse all arts, all muses, all inspiration. i am ready to curse it and i am ready to embrace it fully, with all of me. what ever me is, it wants to surrender. i am tired of fighting, i am tired of surrendering, i give up, i got to write. if i don't, i am deader than dead.
i think i embarked on this journey about 12 years ago, although i did not realise it then. yesterday, per chance, i sat next to somebody who remembered me from that time. all i remember of the time when i returned to berne after ithaca is one word that has rang inside my head ever since. if there is one word that has lead my life since then, it is that one. why is it that when i have questions about myself, the universe turns around, and it gives me the answers? yesterday was insignificant, and yesterday chanced my perception of what i thought was real. clearly i do not have a clue. i have been here before, and each time i return to this point, it is revelation time, like i had never been here before. for years i struggle, i fight, except that i never quite know what it is, i have a vague idea of the journey, still there is no goal, it is the journey that is important or so it seems.
right now, even my body tells me that all is changing. sometimes i wish that this body and this mind would divorce and give each other a truce, but they seem to not be that far. i am the spectator in this life of mind and body experiencing what being human could be about. i feel that i do not exist, that my will has no consequence, and that somehow, it is those ephemeral dreams that propel me, not automatically, not routinely, but effortlessly. i never thought that this would happen. i do not know what it is. perhaps this is sheer madness. and madness i welcome in this life.
love,
yours to eternity and back again
i have been very absent from all, especially from this earth. if have not responded to your mails and messages is because there was nowhere where i could begin. i do not understand the process which i am going through these days, it is, at best, very odd.
i have tried calling you on a couple of occasions, either you are not home, or you are busy.
and then, if there is a name to the process that i am going through, it is surrender, but surrender at a level like i have not known before, nor that i could imagine. somehow it is as though my life is disappearing and i exist somewhere and somehow just serving the muses that pass through me. they write, i am just the instrument. i read the stuff that i write, and i wonder how i could write something like that. sometimes it flows, it is then quiet, and it feels like a drug. on a good day i do not know if i am going insane, totally insane, and ready for the clinic or if actually i am fulfilling my life's dream. frankly i do not even care to know which one, it does not make a difference as far i am concerned. this feels like drugs, or what i imagine that being on drugs is like.
there are no crazy and wild adventures in my life, although there are surprises almost each day.
i have my moments when i wish i was more of a functioning machine, and much less the possessed poet that i feel like i am turning... it is good to feel, to have feelings, to be sensitive, but then i have my days, when it all seems much too much... and i could do with a bit more numbness. wide awake at 3 am, has all of a sudden a totally different new meaning. i am ready to curse all arts, all muses, all inspiration. i am ready to curse it and i am ready to embrace it fully, with all of me. what ever me is, it wants to surrender. i am tired of fighting, i am tired of surrendering, i give up, i got to write. if i don't, i am deader than dead.
i think i embarked on this journey about 12 years ago, although i did not realise it then. yesterday, per chance, i sat next to somebody who remembered me from that time. all i remember of the time when i returned to berne after ithaca is one word that has rang inside my head ever since. if there is one word that has lead my life since then, it is that one. why is it that when i have questions about myself, the universe turns around, and it gives me the answers? yesterday was insignificant, and yesterday chanced my perception of what i thought was real. clearly i do not have a clue. i have been here before, and each time i return to this point, it is revelation time, like i had never been here before. for years i struggle, i fight, except that i never quite know what it is, i have a vague idea of the journey, still there is no goal, it is the journey that is important or so it seems.
right now, even my body tells me that all is changing. sometimes i wish that this body and this mind would divorce and give each other a truce, but they seem to not be that far. i am the spectator in this life of mind and body experiencing what being human could be about. i feel that i do not exist, that my will has no consequence, and that somehow, it is those ephemeral dreams that propel me, not automatically, not routinely, but effortlessly. i never thought that this would happen. i do not know what it is. perhaps this is sheer madness. and madness i welcome in this life.
love,
yours to eternity and back again
when do i know?
when do i know that i have had enough?
when will i ever learn to keep my mouth shut or my typing fingers still? i am always a bit like the cat that has to leave the tail hanging out, unsure, undecided, hesitating. sometimes i really wish i was not this way, and other times i just wish i would get to know myself in a rush, but i am slow, even in getting to know myself. no, you do not have a chance, you never did. this is all about intellectual intercourse and sexual discourse. no, it is not the other way around. when i first realized that i could one day come to this point, i thought that i would not be able to bear it, to be in the presence of that which is so unknown to me.
form, it is about form. it is about trial and error. today i am up a wall, a wall that i do not like, do not appreciate and i am ready to turn it all around, once more. one more time, not for old time sake, just for my own sake. once more, again, now.
when my sister died, i hated every bit of it. i hated that she was dead, i hated that i was alive, i hated that i was writing, i hated that she would never learn to. that feeling never left me, it is still here, it is perhaps the only thought that still makes the tears roll down my face: they are rolling. i want to be mad, and i want to scream, and what do i do? i know why people go to the Himalayas or other mountains, or i imagine that they seek that piece of repast from the torture of the mind, that illusion that we call peace eludes me every and each day. or does it?
there are days, when i say, fuck it all. all of it, the peace keepers, the paratroopers, the legal aids, the famished, the living, the dead. just fuck it all, suicide is pink and it is the ultimate choice. if i do not fear death, can i fear anything or anybody? mace in my eyes, a kick here or there, a lesion, blood, pain... it is all bearable, until it becomes unbearable, and then? then there is no heaven, there is no earth. there you are, newly dead, past moribund, the product of your parents procreation insanity, lifeless. no more guilt, no more pain. they live, you die, there is no guilt, there is no pain. there was not even a big bang either.
one day i sat on a hill overlooking the atlantic, gomera it was, you do remember? you remember the blue of the sky, you remember the smell of the waves, the taste of the air. far on the horizon, the sky kissed the ocean, my ocean, and i kissed death. we made a pact: earth, wind and fire would be ours. you were so very preoccupied with all your machinations, how could you even have dreamt up that i had seen you. lies, all lies. once. just once, stop and experience. just once, stop. once.
nos mensonges, a nous, les mensonges du plaisir, de l'infini.
once more, i turn in desperation, that desperation that i have learned to hide, that desperation that does not know fear, that desperation that fights and kills. who are you being when you are there naked and bare? are you then really naked, or is your skin just exposed? who are you being when you ask me to tell you? who are you being when you tell me of little monsters and wonderful sights? who are you being when you think that i believe any of it? who are you being when you try to justify? once upon a time, you shall never know. for the truth is, that time is past and gone, freshly dead, like a whisper of a desire that was never born.
dare being poetic, do you? do you dare give form to the raw material of your intellect? do you dare using that mind of yours, that curse of mine? dare, just dare, once. once dare to trabble out of there, to ignore the feelings, to surrender to the pain inside your being. venture out from the ringing inside your cranium, dare, just dare going past it, once, twice. dare and die! twice.
not once, not once upon a time, twice.
i am there, where i dreaded to be for ignorance of never having been here, i arrived, and i had not believed i had started the journey. how could it be? how could you leave me alone on this journey? it was your journey, you swore it to me. you swore alliance, allegiance, and eternal misery, but swear you did. or were you just cursing my very existence? i believed in that dream that i thought we could carve out of the jails of mental leprosy. you, me and him. twice, once, now. i am here, the sun is setting, the sky, the ocean, the blue: once.
tears, fire, earth, and the taste of the waves. remember freedom? remember the freedom of waking up and not knowing anything, no time, no place, nothing, no language, no words, no remembrances. no memory of the memories, no existence of the existences, once... just once, freshly arrived, terribly accidented, dismembered, disembodied.
when do i know?
when will i ever learn to keep my mouth shut or my typing fingers still? i am always a bit like the cat that has to leave the tail hanging out, unsure, undecided, hesitating. sometimes i really wish i was not this way, and other times i just wish i would get to know myself in a rush, but i am slow, even in getting to know myself. no, you do not have a chance, you never did. this is all about intellectual intercourse and sexual discourse. no, it is not the other way around. when i first realized that i could one day come to this point, i thought that i would not be able to bear it, to be in the presence of that which is so unknown to me.
form, it is about form. it is about trial and error. today i am up a wall, a wall that i do not like, do not appreciate and i am ready to turn it all around, once more. one more time, not for old time sake, just for my own sake. once more, again, now.
when my sister died, i hated every bit of it. i hated that she was dead, i hated that i was alive, i hated that i was writing, i hated that she would never learn to. that feeling never left me, it is still here, it is perhaps the only thought that still makes the tears roll down my face: they are rolling. i want to be mad, and i want to scream, and what do i do? i know why people go to the Himalayas or other mountains, or i imagine that they seek that piece of repast from the torture of the mind, that illusion that we call peace eludes me every and each day. or does it?
there are days, when i say, fuck it all. all of it, the peace keepers, the paratroopers, the legal aids, the famished, the living, the dead. just fuck it all, suicide is pink and it is the ultimate choice. if i do not fear death, can i fear anything or anybody? mace in my eyes, a kick here or there, a lesion, blood, pain... it is all bearable, until it becomes unbearable, and then? then there is no heaven, there is no earth. there you are, newly dead, past moribund, the product of your parents procreation insanity, lifeless. no more guilt, no more pain. they live, you die, there is no guilt, there is no pain. there was not even a big bang either.
one day i sat on a hill overlooking the atlantic, gomera it was, you do remember? you remember the blue of the sky, you remember the smell of the waves, the taste of the air. far on the horizon, the sky kissed the ocean, my ocean, and i kissed death. we made a pact: earth, wind and fire would be ours. you were so very preoccupied with all your machinations, how could you even have dreamt up that i had seen you. lies, all lies. once. just once, stop and experience. just once, stop. once.
nos mensonges, a nous, les mensonges du plaisir, de l'infini.
once more, i turn in desperation, that desperation that i have learned to hide, that desperation that does not know fear, that desperation that fights and kills. who are you being when you are there naked and bare? are you then really naked, or is your skin just exposed? who are you being when you ask me to tell you? who are you being when you tell me of little monsters and wonderful sights? who are you being when you think that i believe any of it? who are you being when you try to justify? once upon a time, you shall never know. for the truth is, that time is past and gone, freshly dead, like a whisper of a desire that was never born.
dare being poetic, do you? do you dare give form to the raw material of your intellect? do you dare using that mind of yours, that curse of mine? dare, just dare, once. once dare to trabble out of there, to ignore the feelings, to surrender to the pain inside your being. venture out from the ringing inside your cranium, dare, just dare going past it, once, twice. dare and die! twice.
not once, not once upon a time, twice.
i am there, where i dreaded to be for ignorance of never having been here, i arrived, and i had not believed i had started the journey. how could it be? how could you leave me alone on this journey? it was your journey, you swore it to me. you swore alliance, allegiance, and eternal misery, but swear you did. or were you just cursing my very existence? i believed in that dream that i thought we could carve out of the jails of mental leprosy. you, me and him. twice, once, now. i am here, the sun is setting, the sky, the ocean, the blue: once.
tears, fire, earth, and the taste of the waves. remember freedom? remember the freedom of waking up and not knowing anything, no time, no place, nothing, no language, no words, no remembrances. no memory of the memories, no existence of the existences, once... just once, freshly arrived, terribly accidented, dismembered, disembodied.
when do i know?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)