Dancing with one of the last christmas gifts.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Friday, December 23, 2005
Stay
She's softly breathing next to me.
A shining angel sent to me.
From where she came it's hard to say.
Tiny star she guides my way.
A shining angel sent to me.
From where she came it's hard to say.
Tiny star she guides my way.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Leaving
I went to the dentist last week. Thought I had lost a filling. Turned out it was merely chipped. This wasn't "my" dentist, just a local one, since I thought I had an emergency. But as I sat down in the chair, an assistant started going through all the things she was going to do that day. I needed a whole work-up, she said. There were a bunch of x-rays to be taken, then a thorough examination, and finally a plan was to be drawn up for what would turn out needed to be done over the next few years. The next few years? I paused her. Suddenly, I had realized that after years of moving to this place, I had now stopped. That now it was time to start moving away from here. Some people tend to want to stay in one place. Not I. Apart from moving frequently—living here for four years has been my longest consecutive stint in one place since the eighties—I tend to be mentally either moving in or out even while staying at one place. I thought becoming a father would change that. It hasn't. So far, at least. And so it was in that chair that I realized that I have now begun preparing for leaving this place. In a year or so. Perhaps a year and a half. Mentally, I have started making plans for how to deal with that. Whether to take one car along. Two. Or sell them both. What appliances to leave. When to list the house. I am leaving, ever so slowly.
It also just seems to be in the air. Not only are our neighbors, the people who we have really connected with here, leaving piecemeal for another country, but other big attractions on the street are leaving as well. One branch at a time.
We became interested in the neighborhood before we became fond of the house. Short, quiet streets that are close to the bustle—such as it is—have always appealed to me. That is why I liked staying in a quiet apartment overlooking Las Ramblas, in the obscure little hotel around the corner from Times Square, at the resort on the calm side of Duval Street, on Maui instead of Oahu, near Montmartre instead of on Champs Elysees, on a side street from Oxford Street, comfortably close to Strøget etc. I need people. Crave life. And when that life ebbs, I lose interest. Become sad, even.
Like today.
I still remember the first time I saw that tree. It towered over everything. Not just the house which yard it occupied, but the house across the street as well. Actually, the whole street for that matter. It just stood there, graceful, quiet, strong. Like some benevolent giant, watching out for us puny beings busying about below its branches. My daughter took to it immediately, as well. It must have been one of the more striking sights for her early on, laying in her carriage, looking up at the sky, as I pushed it up and down the street.
I struck up a conversation with the head of the deconstruction crew. He said he was sorry to see it go. I believed him. He was probably in his early sixties, but couldn't remember this street without that tree towering over it.
Why do we so crave stability, somewhere in our lives? Why do we need to know that some things are not evanescent, that they will "always" be there? Maybe it was just the immoderate size of this being, and its apparent immovability that gave the illusion that it would never leave.
In the end, it doesn't matter. It, too, is leaving.
It also just seems to be in the air. Not only are our neighbors, the people who we have really connected with here, leaving piecemeal for another country, but other big attractions on the street are leaving as well. One branch at a time.
We became interested in the neighborhood before we became fond of the house. Short, quiet streets that are close to the bustle—such as it is—have always appealed to me. That is why I liked staying in a quiet apartment overlooking Las Ramblas, in the obscure little hotel around the corner from Times Square, at the resort on the calm side of Duval Street, on Maui instead of Oahu, near Montmartre instead of on Champs Elysees, on a side street from Oxford Street, comfortably close to Strøget etc. I need people. Crave life. And when that life ebbs, I lose interest. Become sad, even.
Like today.
I still remember the first time I saw that tree. It towered over everything. Not just the house which yard it occupied, but the house across the street as well. Actually, the whole street for that matter. It just stood there, graceful, quiet, strong. Like some benevolent giant, watching out for us puny beings busying about below its branches. My daughter took to it immediately, as well. It must have been one of the more striking sights for her early on, laying in her carriage, looking up at the sky, as I pushed it up and down the street.
I struck up a conversation with the head of the deconstruction crew. He said he was sorry to see it go. I believed him. He was probably in his early sixties, but couldn't remember this street without that tree towering over it.
Why do we so crave stability, somewhere in our lives? Why do we need to know that some things are not evanescent, that they will "always" be there? Maybe it was just the immoderate size of this being, and its apparent immovability that gave the illusion that it would never leave.
In the end, it doesn't matter. It, too, is leaving.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Fifth
12 Angry men [1957]
If you have read this blog on a regular basis, you will know that I abhor it when people pigeonhole other people on the basis of their education, nationality, their sex, age, race, sexual orientation, whatever. Labels don't clear anything up. They tie up those that you apply them to. And they give you false security when you start generalizing about that group. About how they will react. What they think. How capable they are. Whether you will agree with them. Or find them interesting. The apparently inate human urge to categorize our fellow man, to cheat our way towards getting to actually knowing that person by attaching a predefined set of attributes to him or her, just may be one of the most devisive afflictions that this race is born with. Still, its prevalence is not just based in the ease of mind that comes with being able to hang these neat labels on every human being that crosses our paths. The difficult truth is that some of these labels have just a touch of truth to them. Just a tad. Enough to make us feel good to use all of them, and to base on them our whole, already fragile value system regarding other people. And before you know it, some potentially sane person gets up, walks over to a perfect stranger, an African-American, and tries to pay that person a complement by saying "These are promising looking children you've got there. Odds are that one of them will become a professional athlete. Congratulations!". By the way, I am not just taking this as a theoretical example. This actually happened to a friend of mine. Last week. In a restaurant, in the next town over from here. But of all the half-rights, those grains of truths, the whole 'men are angry, women are gentle' is probably the most prevalent. The notion that the World's two ruling forces are testosterone and estrogen. That men's drive is rage and women's is love. Men want to conquer, women want to comfort. I could go on all night. These half-wrongs permeate all our culture, to the point that there does not seem to be a sphere of human discourse that is free of them. This film certainly is not. Hell, it actually tackles it, head on. Through the years, Henry Fonda keeps getting the big credit for his lead in this SIdney Lumet's first bout on the big screen. And sure, he is good. Quite good. But this is a film from another era. Another world. A world completely ruled by men. Men who in general were just as inept then as they are today at doing things like conveying their feelings, especially to those that are close to them. Including love. And it is Lee J. Cobb who steals this show. His portrayal of an enraged, bitter man, whose son has abandoned him after receiving heavy-handed upbringing, really got to me. I felt I knew this man. I understood him. Not because I know men like him. Or because I empathised with him. But it still struck a nerve, somehow. The moment he briefly talks about his son, early on in the movie, I could feel that was going to be what it all came down to. And it did. Masterfully. Brilliantly. If I were to generalize about one hald of mankind, I would say that there is a locomotive quality to men, as a gender. They are one-track minded, loud, blow a lot of steam, slow out of the gate, high-maintainence, unflinching if you cross them, and take forever to stop once they are on a roll. Toot-tooooot.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Slave
As has been mentioned here a few times before, I am a junkie. I have the mentality of an addict, and when I am about to become hooked on something, I frequently need to approach it with an almost 12-step mentality, if I am not to fall pray to it. It makes sense that such an inclination runs in families, seeing how my brother was a slave to alcoholism all of his adult life, almost up to the point when he died just after his 43rd birthday.
Still, I do not get hooked on everything. And not even some of the classics. For example, booze doesn't seem to be a problem for me. But smoking is. Or would be, if I hadn't gone to some pains to stop using it when I was sixteen. I think my saving grace was that I hadn't smoked for more than a couple of years, but it was still an effort. Other smoking or snorting or shooting up has not been a problem, simply because I have been too scared shitless to even try most of it. However, I was addicted to what I gather is the worst of them all, caffeine. That took a long cold turkey back in '92 or '93, and I have stayed away from the stuff ever since. Of my current masters, chocolate probably remains the most powerful, and insidious. I have spells every other month or so, where I just can't stop eating it. I wake up in the morning and have to load up on candy bars. I can therefore not wait to get to the gas station, beacause I know that I cleaned out any scrap of chocolate in the house the night before. Same thing with ice cream. There are these recurring periods when I have to have my daily pint, preferrably of Ben & Jerry's. At least there, I actually do have a warning sign I sometimes pay attention to: The day I have had two pints, by myself, during that one day, is usually the day I manage to start a successful ice cream cold turkey. Which may last a couple of weeks, or even a few months.
Somewhat less corporal, but no less consuming, are addictions such as my movie/DVD spouts, my road biking periods a.k.a. my marathon years a.k.a. the fight for my brown belt (also known as the karate-kid-with-several-broken-bones period), back in the day my computer games insomniatic weeks on ends, latent workaholism, and my ever-present news addiction. That last one actually never seems to really subside, it just varies in intensity from glancing over headlines twice a day to an all-out, full-blown ride through news media on five continents, followed by bouts of depression over the cruel brutality in the world and my inability to do much about it. Those rides can last all through the night, several nights in a row.
Now if I could only get hooked on moderation.
Still, I do not get hooked on everything. And not even some of the classics. For example, booze doesn't seem to be a problem for me. But smoking is. Or would be, if I hadn't gone to some pains to stop using it when I was sixteen. I think my saving grace was that I hadn't smoked for more than a couple of years, but it was still an effort. Other smoking or snorting or shooting up has not been a problem, simply because I have been too scared shitless to even try most of it. However, I was addicted to what I gather is the worst of them all, caffeine. That took a long cold turkey back in '92 or '93, and I have stayed away from the stuff ever since. Of my current masters, chocolate probably remains the most powerful, and insidious. I have spells every other month or so, where I just can't stop eating it. I wake up in the morning and have to load up on candy bars. I can therefore not wait to get to the gas station, beacause I know that I cleaned out any scrap of chocolate in the house the night before. Same thing with ice cream. There are these recurring periods when I have to have my daily pint, preferrably of Ben & Jerry's. At least there, I actually do have a warning sign I sometimes pay attention to: The day I have had two pints, by myself, during that one day, is usually the day I manage to start a successful ice cream cold turkey. Which may last a couple of weeks, or even a few months.
Somewhat less corporal, but no less consuming, are addictions such as my movie/DVD spouts, my road biking periods a.k.a. my marathon years a.k.a. the fight for my brown belt (also known as the karate-kid-with-several-broken-bones period), back in the day my computer games insomniatic weeks on ends, latent workaholism, and my ever-present news addiction. That last one actually never seems to really subside, it just varies in intensity from glancing over headlines twice a day to an all-out, full-blown ride through news media on five continents, followed by bouts of depression over the cruel brutality in the world and my inability to do much about it. Those rides can last all through the night, several nights in a row.
Now if I could only get hooked on moderation.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Fourth
Network [1976]
One of the best movies. Ever. This is the movie Robert Murdoch was watching when he got the idea for the Fox "News" Network. This is just so incredibly well written. Which is enough for me. I mean, the acting is good. Really good, actually. But the movie is just a solid delivery of text. Wonderful, spine-chillingly fabulous text. But that is it. There is minimal action or physical movement of any kind. Basically because there is no room for it. Hell, it is a Sidney Lumet film. I mean, 12 Angry Men took place almost entirely in one room. Plus it isn't needed. The lines are king. One result of that is the timelessness of the film. Look past the 70's hair-dos and bell-bottoms, obsolete technology etc. and you have a movie that could have opened yesterday. And it would have been received as a timely wake-up call. A fresh critique of TV's kiss of death to society. Or as one character puts it in the film: "You are television incarnate, Diana, indifferent to suffering, insensitive to joy. All of life is reduced to the common rubble of banality. War, murder, death are all the same to you as bottles of beer. The daily business of life is a corrupt comedy. You even shatter the sensations of time and space into split-seconds and instant replays. You are madness, Diana, virulent madness, and everything you touch dies with you." But there is another pillar holding up the movie. Another aspect of society getting a whooping. The conglomerate. The corporation. The Network. Actually, the movie is more about how big business corrupts television than about how television corrupts people and their society. Kind of like Syriana, which I really look forward to seeing. I'll end with a quote from the Network's chairman of the board. This says it all: "There is no America. There is no democracy. There is only IBM and ITT and AT&T and DuPont, Dow, Union Carbide, and Exxon. Those are the nations of the world today. What do you think the Russians talk about in their councils of state? Karl Marx? They get out their linear programming charts, statistical decision theories, minimax solutions, and compute the price-cost probabilities of their transactions and investments, just like we do. We no longer live in a world of nations and ideologies, Mr. Beale. The world is a college of corporations, inexorably determined by the immutable bylaws of business. The world is a business, Mr. Beale."
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Firefly
Sci-fi. Space opera. Western?
Of course it got cancelled. Of course. See, I actually loved it.
So it got cancelled. Just one of those moments when you realize that you don't really have that much in common with most people. That on a daily basis you look at what this junk-eating, gun-toting, bible-thumping, SUV-driving, fake-polite, material-possession-crazy, ignorant, petty, scared, mindboggingly boring, narcissistic world you live in dishes out and you try to make sense of it. You try to go "well... yeah... I get it... sort of. Heh-heh?". And then smile. Like an idiot. Even if you just do not get it. And hopefully never will. Even if you don't know who 'Nick and Jess' are, you don't want to know, and you certainly do not want to hear any more about their stupid divorce. Even if you do think that racking up obscene amounts of deficits for your children to pay off is stupid. Even if you don't think the president knows what the hell he is talking about. Even if you always thought attacking Iraq was a stupid, just plainly insane thing to do. Even still. You go through the motions. Play your part. Every. Single. Day. Alternating your own fake smile and fake 'excuse me', plus the even fakeier 'how are you', with no real question mark attached to it.
I'm just an alien. And I pray I will never, ever, ever never ever belong.
Take me out
to the black.
Tell 'em I ain't comin' back.
Burn the land and boil the sea.
You can't take the sky from me.
Of course it got cancelled. Of course. See, I actually loved it.
So it got cancelled. Just one of those moments when you realize that you don't really have that much in common with most people. That on a daily basis you look at what this junk-eating, gun-toting, bible-thumping, SUV-driving, fake-polite, material-possession-crazy, ignorant, petty, scared, mindboggingly boring, narcissistic world you live in dishes out and you try to make sense of it. You try to go "well... yeah... I get it... sort of. Heh-heh?". And then smile. Like an idiot. Even if you just do not get it. And hopefully never will. Even if you don't know who 'Nick and Jess' are, you don't want to know, and you certainly do not want to hear any more about their stupid divorce. Even if you do think that racking up obscene amounts of deficits for your children to pay off is stupid. Even if you don't think the president knows what the hell he is talking about. Even if you always thought attacking Iraq was a stupid, just plainly insane thing to do. Even still. You go through the motions. Play your part. Every. Single. Day. Alternating your own fake smile and fake 'excuse me', plus the even fakeier 'how are you', with no real question mark attached to it.
I'm just an alien. And I pray I will never, ever, ever never ever belong.
Take me out
to the black.
Tell 'em I ain't comin' back.
Burn the land and boil the sea.
You can't take the sky from me.
Friday, December 9, 2005
Saturday, December 3, 2005
Friday, November 11, 2005
Back in black
Rain in my eyes. Coming out of the black.
I walked out of the terminal, and into the arms of this gusty darkness. The driver said something about how glad he was that it was raining. I knew what he was trying to say. I know this place. He just meant that he was glad that it was raining, because that meant that it was warmer. That is usually the choice, this time of year: Rain and mild, or clear and freezing. The wind is a permanent bonus.
Maybe it just suits me to feel alone. To yearn for closeness. For warmth. Why else do I keep landing back in that position?
I walked down by the harbor. Skipped on large boulders, fed pebbles to the ocean. I had missed the sea. It was this strange shade of dark emerald green. Rumbling. Commanding respect. Straining for calmness. Disarmingly enamoring.
Your mind is a sea of turmoil. In its natural state. You flow with your emotions, until you decide to try to tame them. You go 'enough is enough!' or 'I will cut you down, because you do not make sense' or 'because this hurts'. But hurting is part of it. How else can you really know that you are alive?
At noon, I went and gave blood. My blood pressure was 144 over 70. What? I have always been 125 over 60-something. The nurse was a beautiful older woman. She used to be a beautiful, young woman. You can always tell. No matter how old or how fat they get. How much they've drunk or smoked or stressed or whatever. You can always tell. Not because you can necessarily picture what they used to look like. But because no beautiful woman will stay oblivious to her own beauty through her whole life. At some point, they all realize it. They become aware of it. Some flaunt it, use it. Others shy away, try to hide it. Or over-compensate. Try to be 'normal'. Luckily, some just don't care. A few don't even care at all. But they know. They all know. And you can see it. In their eyes.
She listened to the shock of this mild thirty-something that he just might not be all that young with a perfect 120/60 anymore. Smiled. And said gently "why don't I try this again, the machine tends to act up sometimes." She strapped me in again. Hit the button. I closed my eyes and breathed more calmly. "See? That did not hurt, now did it?" 126 over 71. I let out a sigh of relief. And then she said "Consistency is bliss." I instinctly said "Really?" She smiled. "Yes." "In all applications?" Another smile. She was quiet for a while. Then she looked up. "Yes, in every application. Some people always want change. Excitement. But being able to depend on your life being the way you think it will be is a luxury."
And so many people actually think that. No sudden changes. No unexpected financial challenges. No new shower to learn how to not scold you. No new language to let you fuck-up and say a million new stupid things in. No new climate. No new laws. No new people. New relationships. New smiles. New cries. Just peace. And predictability.
And who am I to question that? Am I doing all that well? With my ever-restless self? With my thirst, my curiosity, my compassion, my lust for life?
No, I am back in black.
I walked out of the terminal, and into the arms of this gusty darkness. The driver said something about how glad he was that it was raining. I knew what he was trying to say. I know this place. He just meant that he was glad that it was raining, because that meant that it was warmer. That is usually the choice, this time of year: Rain and mild, or clear and freezing. The wind is a permanent bonus.
Maybe it just suits me to feel alone. To yearn for closeness. For warmth. Why else do I keep landing back in that position?
I walked down by the harbor. Skipped on large boulders, fed pebbles to the ocean. I had missed the sea. It was this strange shade of dark emerald green. Rumbling. Commanding respect. Straining for calmness. Disarmingly enamoring.
Your mind is a sea of turmoil. In its natural state. You flow with your emotions, until you decide to try to tame them. You go 'enough is enough!' or 'I will cut you down, because you do not make sense' or 'because this hurts'. But hurting is part of it. How else can you really know that you are alive?
At noon, I went and gave blood. My blood pressure was 144 over 70. What? I have always been 125 over 60-something. The nurse was a beautiful older woman. She used to be a beautiful, young woman. You can always tell. No matter how old or how fat they get. How much they've drunk or smoked or stressed or whatever. You can always tell. Not because you can necessarily picture what they used to look like. But because no beautiful woman will stay oblivious to her own beauty through her whole life. At some point, they all realize it. They become aware of it. Some flaunt it, use it. Others shy away, try to hide it. Or over-compensate. Try to be 'normal'. Luckily, some just don't care. A few don't even care at all. But they know. They all know. And you can see it. In their eyes.
She listened to the shock of this mild thirty-something that he just might not be all that young with a perfect 120/60 anymore. Smiled. And said gently "why don't I try this again, the machine tends to act up sometimes." She strapped me in again. Hit the button. I closed my eyes and breathed more calmly. "See? That did not hurt, now did it?" 126 over 71. I let out a sigh of relief. And then she said "Consistency is bliss." I instinctly said "Really?" She smiled. "Yes." "In all applications?" Another smile. She was quiet for a while. Then she looked up. "Yes, in every application. Some people always want change. Excitement. But being able to depend on your life being the way you think it will be is a luxury."
And so many people actually think that. No sudden changes. No unexpected financial challenges. No new shower to learn how to not scold you. No new language to let you fuck-up and say a million new stupid things in. No new climate. No new laws. No new people. New relationships. New smiles. New cries. Just peace. And predictability.
And who am I to question that? Am I doing all that well? With my ever-restless self? With my thirst, my curiosity, my compassion, my lust for life?
No, I am back in black.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Smiles
Just a few of the more than 40 kids (new record!) that I showered with chocolate tonight.
This is one of the things that I actually like about this country. For the most part, people here are really good to their kids. They take an interest in what they are doing, they take good care of them, and they play with them. Behind almost every group of grinning kids tonight lurked some equally giddy parents, excitedly supporting their trembling offspring, praising them for their nerve to come up to this ghoulish house on the hill, rejoicing with them over the loot they reaped as a result.
A society that treats its children gently could yet be saved.
Friday, October 28, 2005
More
oh tyler, rescue me
deliver me
deliver me from swedish furniture
deliver me from clever art
deliver me from clear skin and perfect teeth
may i never be complete
may i never be content
may i never be perfect
i want you to hit me as hard as you can
deliver me
deliver me from swedish furniture
deliver me from clever art
deliver me from clear skin and perfect teeth
may i never be complete
may i never be content
may i never be perfect
i want you to hit me as hard as you can
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Third
The Merchant of Venice [2004]
I have always been weary of this play. Shakespeare is truly versatile, granted, and speaks with a commanding and often urging voice. But when I read this one, probably back in high school, I could not get past the anti-semitism of it. Maybe I read it wrong, or over-simplified it, like people in high school are supposed to do. But it just tasted foul to me. I felt—and actually still feel—that Shylock was not just treated too harshly, but that he was treated that way because he was a jew. And that can't be tolerated. Enter this grand production, starring no less than both Al Pacino and Jeremy Irons. And grand it is. Pacino gives his trademark goosebump performance, expecially in the Hath not a Jews eyes? speech. I mean, he doesn't just nail it. He defines it. Man o man, what an overpour of talent. The big performance surprise though, for me, was Lynn Collins. She was the exact Portia that I remembered reading. Shakespeare has the odd strong and bright woman in his plays, but Portia is arguably the strongest, the wisest, the bravest, the most eloquent. She strides into the chamber where Shylock is debating his legal premise for demanding his pound of flesh—and summarily disarms him with his own logic. Breathtaking. She then goes on to crush him, ruin and humiliate him, which shows her single, but gigantic, character flaw. Not so breathtaking. Actually, that whole business is painted in such racist terms that you don't feel that it is she that is in moral lapse. Instead, you feel it is the whole play, and you just kind of slide backwards out of the whole thing at that moment. I will say though, that the movie actively tries to temper that anti-semitic streak of the play. And that is laudable. But it is not enough to cover all of the ugly, underlying contempt that Shakespeare, or just that whole time in which he lived, seems to have had for people of that particular religion. Maybe it's just my complete intolerance for racism in any form. Any notion that presents the view that we are not all just as equal, just as good, when we crawl into this world, naked and shivering, is a notion that I will not debate, but dismiss with my utmost contempt.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Second
The Mosquito Coast
I am a sucker for Harrison Ford. I feel like he can do no wrong. Even after I slap myself, pour cold water over my head and look myself in the mirror. Even gobbledygook like Six Days Seven Nights or Hollywood Homicide has not managed to turn me away. Still, I always knew this one was rotten. And rotten it is. It basically tells the story of a pathological, egotistic, self-righteous, maniacal tyrrant of a know-it-all, who dominantly drags his wife and several young children through hell and back, almost killing them in the process. And when his last act of grandstanding gets him killed, does he then repent in his final hours? Oh, no. He curses the people who have loved him enough to sacrifice their being for him—his family. All in all a pathetic idea for a film about that most pathetic of stereotypes, which I can't wait until becomes extinct: The 'master of the house'. That male who assumes control of his wife and children as if they were his property, tools to serve his mission. That guy sickens me. Mostly because he is the embodiment of an emasculated bloke. A jerk who does not have the fortitude—the masculinity—to tempre his strength, to share control, power, life, with his partner, or to guide his children to fulfill their potential, instead of serving his needs. So this is the film that ended my blind allegiance to Harrison Ford. Which is ironic in a way, since his acting here is among his most passable, ever. Probably means that I liked his stunts more than his stagecraft. Pity. And I was so looking forward to Indiana Jones 4. Ah, who am I kidding. Of course I'll go and see that too. And love it.
A strange, brief bout of jealousy
Somebody dear to me was in my dreams last night. We have not seen each other since last winter, and our conversations have grown shorter, blander, and further apart as time has gone by. It is mostly me that calls, and I think the answers nowadays may mostly be stemming from courtesy, and kindness, instead of interest. I made such a call on Monday, and this darling happened to have some good news to tell. Life was exciting and fun things were happening. And I was glad, and relieved, as one should be. But afterwards, I was suddenly overcome with jealousy. It was a powerful feeling, surging up through me like hot steam. And I almost never get jealous. It subsided quickly enough, but it was strong while it lasted, and equally surprising. Uncomfortable, but at the same time somewhat thrilling. Strange.
So many of my friends are back 'home', a five-hour plane-ride away. And with most of them, it is as if no time has passed when I fly back there, and casually sit down beside them on a couch. I will just get a smile, a hug, and that will be it. But some just seem to fade away. Granted, I am at fault here more often then not. It just turns out that I have no urge to seek out some of the people who I hardly meet anymore. Some are neighbors, others colleagues, some are just friends of friends, but some are people I used to be close with. These are people that I would meet routinely if I was still back there, even daily. And now, somehow, I just do not have anything to give them anymore. There doesn't seem to be a point in calling them up. And when they call, I am only on the receiving end. In the supportive role. Or accommodating the perception that we still have something in common, even if we have become a world apart. I don't think I am ever cruel or unkind in these situations. Just running on empty.
But then there are those precious few. People who I never thought would drift away. Some are friends who I had only just started to really get to know, and a couple are actually among the people I have known the longest. And still I see them grow softer in their greetings, quieter in their answers, more distant, less vibrant. I feel our bond unravelling. Their interest in me vaining. Until one day I realize that it is I that am making all the phone calls. That I am not needed by somebody, not wanted even, and that it is time to let go. Leave these people in peace.
And move on.
So many of my friends are back 'home', a five-hour plane-ride away. And with most of them, it is as if no time has passed when I fly back there, and casually sit down beside them on a couch. I will just get a smile, a hug, and that will be it. But some just seem to fade away. Granted, I am at fault here more often then not. It just turns out that I have no urge to seek out some of the people who I hardly meet anymore. Some are neighbors, others colleagues, some are just friends of friends, but some are people I used to be close with. These are people that I would meet routinely if I was still back there, even daily. And now, somehow, I just do not have anything to give them anymore. There doesn't seem to be a point in calling them up. And when they call, I am only on the receiving end. In the supportive role. Or accommodating the perception that we still have something in common, even if we have become a world apart. I don't think I am ever cruel or unkind in these situations. Just running on empty.
But then there are those precious few. People who I never thought would drift away. Some are friends who I had only just started to really get to know, and a couple are actually among the people I have known the longest. And still I see them grow softer in their greetings, quieter in their answers, more distant, less vibrant. I feel our bond unravelling. Their interest in me vaining. Until one day I realize that it is I that am making all the phone calls. That I am not needed by somebody, not wanted even, and that it is time to let go. Leave these people in peace.
And move on.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
First
Fight Club
You should never see a movie unless your expectations are low. Preferably really low. And you should wait until all the buzz has passed. Wait a few years. Then see the flick for what it really is. Sure, this one is a decent excercise in that whole dual personality shit. But actually, it is more than that. Granted, Brad Pitt couldn't act to save his pretty face, but then, he isn't in this one to act. No, he is portraying that exact two-dimensional cool alter-ego we all wish we have. Sometimes. That carefree handsome son-of-a-bitch, who doesn't need to be too bright, doesn't need to be responsible, isn't going to catch things that are falling. All of that. We need that alter-ego, even if it never emerges from within ourselves. We need it, because day-in, day-out, year-round, life demands that we conform. And behave. Set good examples. Play by the rules. Be content. Smile. Wake up when the clock rings. Go to sleep when appropriate. Say nice things. Be considerate. Only challenge perceptions in controlled dosages, and only live at a certain volume. Because if you inhale too deeply, if you stray outside the parameters, people will not understand you. They will be frightened. So you grasp control of your urges. And you rein them in. Keep them under control. Be comforting. And responsible. And safe. And smile. While you allow yourself only to rage within. That's what this movie is about. Maybe it is a male thing, like this movie maintains. Testosterone, and all that. Maybe. I have done my share of tasting my own blood. And it does make you feel alive, strange as that may sound. But I have never just let go. I do not have periods of recklessness in my past. Times when impulse just took over. Not long ones, anyway. There has always been an element of control. Somewhere. Maybe that has saved me from graver mistakes than I have made. From having regrets. Somebody once called me cold-hearted. I think she was referring to the image I was portraying. The thing is, if I had to choose, I would still choose being the responsible bonus pater with the steady job and the mortgage, over being the reckless, cool, and 'free' guy, who may woo and charm, but will never stick around. Preferably, I would want both. And I have tried. Both. Often. But they do not mix. So I choose to be who I am. And quietly let myself enjoy flicks like Fight Club.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Be kind to your blog
I tend to not listen too well when people speak to me about my blog. Possibly because I usually write it without an audience in mind, and am thus a little startled when people strike up a conversation about how I write it. However, someone wrote me an e-mail the other day, suggesting that I should treat my blog more kindly.
She is right, of course.
One of the things she pointed out was that I do not give very much of me, of what happens in my life. That the blog receives only disjunct ponderings on stuff that I have been internalizing, making for a rather bland and confusing read for other people. I agree. She's absolutely right. And although that is exactly what I had meant for this blog to be, I think it is time for a slight change. For one thing, I have myself become bored with writing the thing. Possibly because it isn't the same outlet that it used to be. Also, aside from my next-door neighbor, I do not think that I know any of you who read this regularly now. That only compounds the boredom of those people. You people. Which actually brings me to another point. I am constantly amazed at why all you people read this stuff. And write back, asking for more. I mean, disjunction and confusion aside, this drivel is so persistantly gloomy, boring, and pessimistic that it should have long since put you all to sleep. Or triggered the onset of depression. Or something. Why do you stay? What could this blog possibly be doing for you? Perplexing. But back to the point.
The change.
I am going to try out two changes. First, I am a movie buff. I watch a lot of them. Not just because I am alone a lot. I have always loved movies. Books I like, poetry, music, ballet, and even the odd painting. But movies I love. Good movies, obviously. Which makes bad movies even more of a letdown, because they feel like an opportunity lost. I mean, all this money, talent, time, people, and film, just to make National Treasure, when you could have been making Am/eacute;lie, to waste it on The Ring instead of striving for Ringu, or settling for Swordfish instead of trying for another Brazil. So. My first change to this blog, in order to give those of you who actually bother to come back here, day after day, to read the ramblings of a man you do not know, is to talk a little about the movies I see. Each day. Now, these will not be reviews, so they will actually not be of any use. Except maybe to give a little bit more coherent picture of me. Perhaps.
Secondly, I am going to try to be better about telling you what is actually happening in my life. And thus possibly gaining back some of the nice feelings I used to have for this blog. This part of me. Because, frankly, I have never been that good at being good to me. Which is silly. Since that is what you should do.
Be kind to yourself.
She is right, of course.
One of the things she pointed out was that I do not give very much of me, of what happens in my life. That the blog receives only disjunct ponderings on stuff that I have been internalizing, making for a rather bland and confusing read for other people. I agree. She's absolutely right. And although that is exactly what I had meant for this blog to be, I think it is time for a slight change. For one thing, I have myself become bored with writing the thing. Possibly because it isn't the same outlet that it used to be. Also, aside from my next-door neighbor, I do not think that I know any of you who read this regularly now. That only compounds the boredom of those people. You people. Which actually brings me to another point. I am constantly amazed at why all you people read this stuff. And write back, asking for more. I mean, disjunction and confusion aside, this drivel is so persistantly gloomy, boring, and pessimistic that it should have long since put you all to sleep. Or triggered the onset of depression. Or something. Why do you stay? What could this blog possibly be doing for you? Perplexing. But back to the point.
The change.
I am going to try out two changes. First, I am a movie buff. I watch a lot of them. Not just because I am alone a lot. I have always loved movies. Books I like, poetry, music, ballet, and even the odd painting. But movies I love. Good movies, obviously. Which makes bad movies even more of a letdown, because they feel like an opportunity lost. I mean, all this money, talent, time, people, and film, just to make National Treasure, when you could have been making Am/eacute;lie, to waste it on The Ring instead of striving for Ringu, or settling for Swordfish instead of trying for another Brazil. So. My first change to this blog, in order to give those of you who actually bother to come back here, day after day, to read the ramblings of a man you do not know, is to talk a little about the movies I see. Each day. Now, these will not be reviews, so they will actually not be of any use. Except maybe to give a little bit more coherent picture of me. Perhaps.
Secondly, I am going to try to be better about telling you what is actually happening in my life. And thus possibly gaining back some of the nice feelings I used to have for this blog. This part of me. Because, frankly, I have never been that good at being good to me. Which is silly. Since that is what you should do.
Be kind to yourself.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
The Angel
It's out.
Like the balding old groupie I am, I waited up past midnight to see if Playing the Angel would pop up for sale on iTunes. Sure enough, it did. And what a surprise! Instead of continuing on the heavy sounds of Violator, Sounds of Faith and Devotion, Ultra (especially), and Exciter, this one is a clear throw-back to the eighties, sound-wise. Even the melodies have a distinct playful dance quality to them, though the lyrics remain somewhat melancholy (ooh, terrible...). Now I just can't wait to see them. Live. In New York City. Madison Square Garden. Front row balcony. December 7. With my wife, and my other best friend. Sweet.
While I was waiting for that Angel to appear, I ran across an old acquaintance. Fiona Apple. Do you remember her? She released a couple of albums in the late nineties. Good ones. Decent ones. This one blows them away. Although not as arresting as Norah Jones, for example, Fiona does have one of those voices that has that dark, velvety feel to them. And this time the sound is honed. Focused. Refined, bassy, strong. Most of time, at least. Needless to say, this is now on the iPod.
And finally, at long last I remembered to pull down some songs from the The Life Aquatic soundtrack. There are, plain and simple, elements of my life that have been lacking the appropriate accompaniment, and that music is on this soundtrack, namely in a couple of Seu Jorge's portugese Bowie covers, and a couple of Mark Mothersbough's quirky tracks. I mean, someone earnestly singing Life on Mars?, in portugese, with just an acoustic guitar. What can be more disarming? By the way, check out Seu's album Cru while you're at it. That one has a couple of seriously good tracks on it. The real Brazil.
Anyway.
I should probably go to bed now.
Like the balding old groupie I am, I waited up past midnight to see if Playing the Angel would pop up for sale on iTunes. Sure enough, it did. And what a surprise! Instead of continuing on the heavy sounds of Violator, Sounds of Faith and Devotion, Ultra (especially), and Exciter, this one is a clear throw-back to the eighties, sound-wise. Even the melodies have a distinct playful dance quality to them, though the lyrics remain somewhat melancholy (ooh, terrible...). Now I just can't wait to see them. Live. In New York City. Madison Square Garden. Front row balcony. December 7. With my wife, and my other best friend. Sweet.
While I was waiting for that Angel to appear, I ran across an old acquaintance. Fiona Apple. Do you remember her? She released a couple of albums in the late nineties. Good ones. Decent ones. This one blows them away. Although not as arresting as Norah Jones, for example, Fiona does have one of those voices that has that dark, velvety feel to them. And this time the sound is honed. Focused. Refined, bassy, strong. Most of time, at least. Needless to say, this is now on the iPod.
And finally, at long last I remembered to pull down some songs from the The Life Aquatic soundtrack. There are, plain and simple, elements of my life that have been lacking the appropriate accompaniment, and that music is on this soundtrack, namely in a couple of Seu Jorge's portugese Bowie covers, and a couple of Mark Mothersbough's quirky tracks. I mean, someone earnestly singing Life on Mars?, in portugese, with just an acoustic guitar. What can be more disarming? By the way, check out Seu's album Cru while you're at it. That one has a couple of seriously good tracks on it. The real Brazil.
Anyway.
I should probably go to bed now.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Life as omelette
More of the same, I guess.
To live is to dip your finger into that pool of screeching noise. There, you have but the faintest control. Over anything. Even yourself. And your own feelings. The concussing, violent amalgam of hope, and despair, and all their cousins, will become deafening. But at any one moment you can pull back. Unplug.
Calm the tremors. Cut the sound. Take that needle of your emotions. Stop them from turning round and round. Ease down your eyelids, and enjoy the silence.
It is too much to take, anyway. Nobody can live non-stop forever. You need a vacation from life, every now and then.
After all, we are only human.
Right?
To live is to dip your finger into that pool of screeching noise. There, you have but the faintest control. Over anything. Even yourself. And your own feelings. The concussing, violent amalgam of hope, and despair, and all their cousins, will become deafening. But at any one moment you can pull back. Unplug.
Calm the tremors. Cut the sound. Take that needle of your emotions. Stop them from turning round and round. Ease down your eyelids, and enjoy the silence.
It is too much to take, anyway. Nobody can live non-stop forever. You need a vacation from life, every now and then.
After all, we are only human.
Right?
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Bleeding
I have been reliving the horrific experience of my life these last few days. Not literally, and this time not by watching my wife in peril, but a dear, dear friend of mine.
The similarities are chilling. She, too, experienced a sudden and massive bleeding, which threw her over to a place where she felt it was touch-and-go for a while. The episode was powerful enough to evoke contemplations of what were to happen if she would die. How the scariness of it came in retrospect. And then the gratitude for just being alive, apart from everything else.
This girl is one of those precious few people who are already filled with joie de vivre, and thankful for being able to enjoy it. She was therefore in no need of such a wakeup-call, and I dearly hope that she will not receive more of them.
It may be just that it has been a while since we last met, or maybe just the shock of this happening, but I am really longing to see her again. Or perhaps this just caused a 'disturbance in the Force', seeing how I had sent her an e-mail, telling her that I was missing her, just hours before learning what had happened.
My wife will every now and then comment on how we all are really much more connected than we think. I usually shrug off those comments.
But not tonight.
The similarities are chilling. She, too, experienced a sudden and massive bleeding, which threw her over to a place where she felt it was touch-and-go for a while. The episode was powerful enough to evoke contemplations of what were to happen if she would die. How the scariness of it came in retrospect. And then the gratitude for just being alive, apart from everything else.
This girl is one of those precious few people who are already filled with joie de vivre, and thankful for being able to enjoy it. She was therefore in no need of such a wakeup-call, and I dearly hope that she will not receive more of them.
It may be just that it has been a while since we last met, or maybe just the shock of this happening, but I am really longing to see her again. Or perhaps this just caused a 'disturbance in the Force', seeing how I had sent her an e-mail, telling her that I was missing her, just hours before learning what had happened.
My wife will every now and then comment on how we all are really much more connected than we think. I usually shrug off those comments.
But not tonight.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
On waiting
I am waiting for the formal 'go' on a couple of work projects. Incidentally, my mother is visiting with us. For the second time in five years. This time around, she is paying more attention to the opportunity that this place presents for relaxation. A change of pace from her otherwise self-imposed, hectic, urbanite lifestyle. So we have been spending the day together in relative silence, she with a book, I with reading the e-mails from you people in response to my challenge from yesterday.
I would like to say that I liked your e-mails even more than the contributions, which by themselves were quite good. Not everybody contributed, but still had some comment or other on melancholy in general, or on how this blog seems to be rooted in it. Regarding the contributions, here is what I have received so far:
I waded through the book. It has been a while since I last read it. All the class rhetoric and the jaded 'old money-new money' discussion aside, I do hope that I will never fall into Gatsby's trap. To strand my life on waiting for something which has already passed by. Maybe I avoid this instinctly, to a fault. Years of reminding myself not to get stuck on a place, a set of ideals, particular interests, etc., has cultivated a disposition with me where such changes are usually brought on quickly and decisively. Even so suddenly and matter-of-factly that it can stun people. To the point where they do not believe it. "What do you mean you don't miss [running the marathon/playing the piano/etc.] You did that for years. It was ingrained in you. It was you! How can you just wake up one day and say that you have just changed?" The short answer is that there is no use crying over spilled milk. That once you lose something, however big a part it was of you or how dear it was to you, the rest of you needs to continue on. The long answer is that I actually don't. Not completely. If it was important to me, it will still tug at me. Possibly for a long time, sometimes forever. And it can hurt. Badly. But my mechanism has no built-in options for wallowing. Or for 'working through it'. Or 'dealing with it'.
My only medicine for unwanted change is time. It may not heal all wounds, but it can numb, and soothe, and give distance. Like a rear-view mirror in a fast-moving car, helping you to see something monumental slowly become smaller and smaller, until you can hardly make it out. Time is my most precious commodity. It is a volatile fountain of life, which you can choose to dive into and drink in and enjoy to its fullest, or you can waste it by doing nothing, or worse, by waiting for something which you will never be blessed with or has already passed.
Gatsby's truly was a life tragically wasted. Not just because he was better than the Buchannans of the world, and he was innocent of what his assailant thought he had done. No. The tragedy lies in the fact that even if his life had not been taken, he still would have waisted it.
On waiting.
I would like to say that I liked your e-mails even more than the contributions, which by themselves were quite good. Not everybody contributed, but still had some comment or other on melancholy in general, or on how this blog seems to be rooted in it. Regarding the contributions, here is what I have received so far:
- The hour just kept drawing nearer.
- Words can be essential. Not then.
- Losing the we, becoming just I.
- The bus mindlessly drove her away.
- We walked through the high grass.
- Never getting to smell him again.
- Gift for hope, a romantic readiness.
I waded through the book. It has been a while since I last read it. All the class rhetoric and the jaded 'old money-new money' discussion aside, I do hope that I will never fall into Gatsby's trap. To strand my life on waiting for something which has already passed by. Maybe I avoid this instinctly, to a fault. Years of reminding myself not to get stuck on a place, a set of ideals, particular interests, etc., has cultivated a disposition with me where such changes are usually brought on quickly and decisively. Even so suddenly and matter-of-factly that it can stun people. To the point where they do not believe it. "What do you mean you don't miss [running the marathon/playing the piano/etc.] You did that for years. It was ingrained in you. It was you! How can you just wake up one day and say that you have just changed?" The short answer is that there is no use crying over spilled milk. That once you lose something, however big a part it was of you or how dear it was to you, the rest of you needs to continue on. The long answer is that I actually don't. Not completely. If it was important to me, it will still tug at me. Possibly for a long time, sometimes forever. And it can hurt. Badly. But my mechanism has no built-in options for wallowing. Or for 'working through it'. Or 'dealing with it'.
My only medicine for unwanted change is time. It may not heal all wounds, but it can numb, and soothe, and give distance. Like a rear-view mirror in a fast-moving car, helping you to see something monumental slowly become smaller and smaller, until you can hardly make it out. Time is my most precious commodity. It is a volatile fountain of life, which you can choose to dive into and drink in and enjoy to its fullest, or you can waste it by doing nothing, or worse, by waiting for something which you will never be blessed with or has already passed.
Gatsby's truly was a life tragically wasted. Not just because he was better than the Buchannans of the world, and he was innocent of what his assailant thought he had done. No. The tragedy lies in the fact that even if his life had not been taken, he still would have waisted it.
On waiting.
Monday, October 10, 2005
More six words
OK, I know, I usually don't encourage you people to e-mail me, basically because it is embarrassing how lazy I am in answering. But tonight I'm just bored.
So.
Whisper me back this: Six words that will instantly evoke a deep sense of melancholy in any warm-blooded creature. And yes, it may be clichéed. To start it off, here's my stab at it:
It was not meant to be.
So.
Whisper me back this: Six words that will instantly evoke a deep sense of melancholy in any warm-blooded creature. And yes, it may be clichéed. To start it off, here's my stab at it:
It was not meant to be.
Saturday, October 8, 2005
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Raidexplain
I have always had a terrible time trying to remember what the different RAID configurations stand for. Always an embarrassing moment when a client picks up on that weak spot of mine.
Thank god for water coolers.
Thank god for water coolers.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Just awake
My practically sole source of real hope for all of our tomorrows, just after waking up this morning.
How many vastly different ways can you love another person? I love this little girl like I have loved no other human being.
Feels strange.
Friday, September 23, 2005
The Ugliness
We live in a World filled with ugliness. Yes, Nature brings its share of death and destruction to men. But most of it, we bring onto ourselves. We maim each other. Kill each other. We let each other starve, and live in misery.
And we wage wars.
That's when we deliberately plan to attack and murder thousands upon thousands of other people, for some insane reason. Defending your territory. Establish stability. Take the fight to 'them' before 'they' get a chance to attack 'us'. Pre-emptive war. Lebensraum. Changing lines on a map. Settling age-old scores, for dead people. "An eye for an eye". Why is it that excuses for wars are always so lame? Why has nobody, ever, come up with a good reason to start a war? The answer is simple. War is such an inhumane act, so despicable, so immoral, so indefensible, that no good reason can be found for waging one. Ever.
And what is it that we do? How do we deal with the hurt in the world? How do we do our best to prevent War? What action do we take in order to take on the ugliness, and to stop it? Nothing. We do practically nothing. At most, we might write a few articles, walk a few marches. Carry a couple of signs. Yell something for an hour or two. But for the most part, we actually, deliberately medicate ourselves, by only consuming controlled dosages of the horror. The mass media also tempers the dosage, just in case. "I need to get back to my life again", we'll mumble to ourselves, adding that it actually isn't us that are physically pulling the trigger. And if it is, then it is under orders. And those giving the orders? Well, the other side 'made' us do it. We had 'no choice'. And the grandmother of all related lies we stuff down our own throat: War is a necessary evil. With all of the suffering of other people, we close our eyes, and cover our ears and repeat over and over and over again that it really is not that bad. That we are not to blame. That people, fundamentally, are not bad. That the World is in fact mostly a good place. That everything is getting better by the day.
That it will be allright.
I awoke, briefly, from my personal self-induced slumber earlier today. I had been reading a book, and my daughter was playing cds on her cd player. One of them has a production of a children's play on it, and it features a wolf, among other creatures. My daughter switched tracks, and suddenly menacing wolf growls were emanating from the speakers. It startled her, and she quickly turned and ran to me, jumped into my lap and demanded "Daddy, keep me safe!" Instinctly, I wrapped my arms around her, closed my eyes, and whispered softly into her ear "Don't be afraid. It will be allright."
It was then that I had my moment of clarity. It was as if I had the briefest glimpse of the angst of other people. All the other people. A tiny drop of the collective hurt of man. And it was vast. And black. Bottomless. Blind. Mindless. And there was no relief in sight. How can anybody say that there is hope, when we are still today embarking upon wars in which hundreds of thousands of real people are maimed or slaughtered? Where children, just like my daughter, sit crying in the streets. Frightened. Alone. Abandoned. Or where tens of thousands die from something as simple as diarrhea every day? Where millions of human beings die from diseases that actually are no medical challenges anymore, and cures for them are already available. Pills sitting in warehouses, collecting dust.
Would you believe me if I told you of a ocean, on the one side of which, millions of people are starving to death, but on the other side, millions are literally eating themselves to death?
Of course you wouldn't. That would be preposterous. It would not make any sense. It would be insane. And when you had been confronted with actual proof of how grimly true things like these really are, you would react in the only way that our tiny, puny selves are able to: Be sad, maybe give some money, shake your head, blog some pathetic drivel about it, and then 'move on'. Because what good would it do to dwell on these things? What more can you really do about it all?
What indeed.
And we wage wars.
That's when we deliberately plan to attack and murder thousands upon thousands of other people, for some insane reason. Defending your territory. Establish stability. Take the fight to 'them' before 'they' get a chance to attack 'us'. Pre-emptive war. Lebensraum. Changing lines on a map. Settling age-old scores, for dead people. "An eye for an eye". Why is it that excuses for wars are always so lame? Why has nobody, ever, come up with a good reason to start a war? The answer is simple. War is such an inhumane act, so despicable, so immoral, so indefensible, that no good reason can be found for waging one. Ever.
And what is it that we do? How do we deal with the hurt in the world? How do we do our best to prevent War? What action do we take in order to take on the ugliness, and to stop it? Nothing. We do practically nothing. At most, we might write a few articles, walk a few marches. Carry a couple of signs. Yell something for an hour or two. But for the most part, we actually, deliberately medicate ourselves, by only consuming controlled dosages of the horror. The mass media also tempers the dosage, just in case. "I need to get back to my life again", we'll mumble to ourselves, adding that it actually isn't us that are physically pulling the trigger. And if it is, then it is under orders. And those giving the orders? Well, the other side 'made' us do it. We had 'no choice'. And the grandmother of all related lies we stuff down our own throat: War is a necessary evil. With all of the suffering of other people, we close our eyes, and cover our ears and repeat over and over and over again that it really is not that bad. That we are not to blame. That people, fundamentally, are not bad. That the World is in fact mostly a good place. That everything is getting better by the day.
That it will be allright.
I awoke, briefly, from my personal self-induced slumber earlier today. I had been reading a book, and my daughter was playing cds on her cd player. One of them has a production of a children's play on it, and it features a wolf, among other creatures. My daughter switched tracks, and suddenly menacing wolf growls were emanating from the speakers. It startled her, and she quickly turned and ran to me, jumped into my lap and demanded "Daddy, keep me safe!" Instinctly, I wrapped my arms around her, closed my eyes, and whispered softly into her ear "Don't be afraid. It will be allright."
It was then that I had my moment of clarity. It was as if I had the briefest glimpse of the angst of other people. All the other people. A tiny drop of the collective hurt of man. And it was vast. And black. Bottomless. Blind. Mindless. And there was no relief in sight. How can anybody say that there is hope, when we are still today embarking upon wars in which hundreds of thousands of real people are maimed or slaughtered? Where children, just like my daughter, sit crying in the streets. Frightened. Alone. Abandoned. Or where tens of thousands die from something as simple as diarrhea every day? Where millions of human beings die from diseases that actually are no medical challenges anymore, and cures for them are already available. Pills sitting in warehouses, collecting dust.
Would you believe me if I told you of a ocean, on the one side of which, millions of people are starving to death, but on the other side, millions are literally eating themselves to death?
Of course you wouldn't. That would be preposterous. It would not make any sense. It would be insane. And when you had been confronted with actual proof of how grimly true things like these really are, you would react in the only way that our tiny, puny selves are able to: Be sad, maybe give some money, shake your head, blog some pathetic drivel about it, and then 'move on'. Because what good would it do to dwell on these things? What more can you really do about it all?
What indeed.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Cubed
I was looking for Sipser's Introduction to the Theory of Computation, when I just got helplessly stuck to this cube. It was this time last year that I was buying one of these. Or was it the year before? Funny how time flies.
I still can't solve it though. I seem to vaguely remember being able to do this back when I was only a kid. But now I can only do one side, with the centers of the other sides aligned correctly. And I don't want to to use the cheat sheet to learn how to do the rest. Which probably means that I will never be able to solve the whole thing.
Ah well. Story of my life.
I still can't solve it though. I seem to vaguely remember being able to do this back when I was only a kid. But now I can only do one side, with the centers of the other sides aligned correctly. And I don't want to to use the cheat sheet to learn how to do the rest. Which probably means that I will never be able to solve the whole thing.
Ah well. Story of my life.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
My DM
I have yet to meet someone whose musical roots are not in his or her teenage years. I am no exception. Granted, I still consume great amounts of music. But the base of the tree grows firmly out of the sounds of my adolescence. Everything new somehow gets measured to that base. It will have to better or extend what I merged with back then, or it won't pass muster. Sure, I listened to a lot of mainstream, like Madness, Housemartins, Simple Minds, Cohen, Bowie, etc. But the core was new wave and punk: Yello, Kraftwerk, Eurythmics, Ultravox, Dead Kennedys, Jean Michel Jarre, Yazoo, Erasure, Soft Cell, Sex Pistols, New Order, Gary Numan. Oh, and Depeche Mode.
It all somehow leads back to DM. A cult band through the eighties, they didn't become truly commercialized until the nineties, with Violator. Personal Jesus, and all that. And they didn't handle the ascension to super-group status very well. The lead singer drugged out and tried to kill himself. Other members slowly drifted apart. Those with insignificant emotional soft spots for the band will tell you that their music suffered.
But I won't.
They had me long before all that. They had me at Master and Servant. Sure, I had listened to their earlier stuff, Speak & Spell, A Broken Frame, and Construction Time Again, along with all the other new wave stuff. But it wasn't until Some Great Reward that something clicked. And it actually wasn't Master and Servant. That came later. No, it was Somebody. That innocent, little song played with something inside me. It was as if my innermost, deepest and most precious feelings had been written out in the lyrics. Since then, that song has been the chink in my armor. And only once has somebody gotten that. But that's a different story. Finally, it was 1986 and Black Celebration and its darkness that caught me for good. Gripped me like only a teenager can be gripped. At an age when you are fighting to become yourself. All the answers emerge. And they are all Yes or No. No Maybes. So I delved into the blackness of DM's world. Their dark melancholy truly made up a part of my core self. Musically, emotionally.
Literally every track on Black Celebration had deep meaning to that simple sixteen year old: Black Celebration, Fly on the Windscreen, Question of Lust, Sometimes, It Doesn't Matter Two, Question of Time, Stripped, Here Is the House, World Full of Nothing, Dressed in Black, New Dress, But Not Tonight. I can still hear every single one of those songs, just by reading the titles. And they open the gates to a flood of memories. Of values affirmed, opinions made, lessons learned. Teenage years truly are a turbulent, even violent, time. Everything is possible. The world is your oyster. You are invincible. And at the same time, you are so terribly vulnerable. You alternate triumphing and dying, a thousand times over. The next year, Music for the Masses came out. And I was ready. I opened a vein and the music poured in. Strangelove. Sacred. Pimpf. Little 15. Never let me down again.
When DM's next album, Violator, came out, they had changed. I had changed. They had shed the last remnants of their underground cloak and become fully mainstream. I had gotten into law school. I still liked the music. But there were other branches growing now, and the straight, black lines were not as appealing to me anymore. I bought suits. And ties. Besides, mainstream has never been my thing. I was more intrigued by Songs of Faith and Devotion, which came out in 1993. Partly because they had gotten heavier, truer, and partly because I was not as self-conscious as you are when you are entering law school and are trying to distance yourself from all the 'silly' things that you were devoted to as a teenager. When Ultra came out, in '97, I had at last become secure enough to embrace the music again. Plus they were even heavier, and rawer. And then, when Exciter came, in 2001, with a tour to boot, I drove up to Montréal with my wife and introduced her properly to DM, by taking her to a concert of theirs. She still talks about that strange man, vaguely resembling her husband, on his feet the whole time, yelling his lungs out to every song with the rest of the 20 thousand plus rabid fans.
Exciter is a delicious come-together of it all: The new wave roots, e.g. in I feel loved, Gore's solo aspirations, in Breathe, the heavy undertone in The Sweetest Condition. And then there is the ever-so precious and fragile beauty of Goodnight Lovers, which one has to go back to Somebody to find a match for. And again, the lyrics just write out the essence of me. Uncanny. Finally there is a lone guitar riff on this record which always manages to cause ripples in my soul. It's the last part of When the Body Speaks. When I hear it, I need only close my eyes, and I am instantly transferred down to the seaside in the city I grew up in, on a mild summer night, sort of like tonight, except there the sun is slowly climbing into the clear sky. The sea is calm and smooth like a mirror, and not a sound can be heard but for a few seagulls, yapping away. I have probably been downtown, dancing all night with friends that have since headed home to sleep, but I am stubbornly cheating the night out of my unconciousness, stealing the start of a day that looks just like an empty piece of paper, patiently waiting for me to write out what ever I want on it.
And now Playing the Angel is finally coming out. I just pre-ordered it on iTunes. And I'm also getting in on the ticket presale of the ensuing concert tour, Touring the Angel.
Call me a fan. But really, that music is simply an expression of me.
It all somehow leads back to DM. A cult band through the eighties, they didn't become truly commercialized until the nineties, with Violator. Personal Jesus, and all that. And they didn't handle the ascension to super-group status very well. The lead singer drugged out and tried to kill himself. Other members slowly drifted apart. Those with insignificant emotional soft spots for the band will tell you that their music suffered.
But I won't.
They had me long before all that. They had me at Master and Servant. Sure, I had listened to their earlier stuff, Speak & Spell, A Broken Frame, and Construction Time Again, along with all the other new wave stuff. But it wasn't until Some Great Reward that something clicked. And it actually wasn't Master and Servant. That came later. No, it was Somebody. That innocent, little song played with something inside me. It was as if my innermost, deepest and most precious feelings had been written out in the lyrics. Since then, that song has been the chink in my armor. And only once has somebody gotten that. But that's a different story. Finally, it was 1986 and Black Celebration and its darkness that caught me for good. Gripped me like only a teenager can be gripped. At an age when you are fighting to become yourself. All the answers emerge. And they are all Yes or No. No Maybes. So I delved into the blackness of DM's world. Their dark melancholy truly made up a part of my core self. Musically, emotionally.
Literally every track on Black Celebration had deep meaning to that simple sixteen year old: Black Celebration, Fly on the Windscreen, Question of Lust, Sometimes, It Doesn't Matter Two, Question of Time, Stripped, Here Is the House, World Full of Nothing, Dressed in Black, New Dress, But Not Tonight. I can still hear every single one of those songs, just by reading the titles. And they open the gates to a flood of memories. Of values affirmed, opinions made, lessons learned. Teenage years truly are a turbulent, even violent, time. Everything is possible. The world is your oyster. You are invincible. And at the same time, you are so terribly vulnerable. You alternate triumphing and dying, a thousand times over. The next year, Music for the Masses came out. And I was ready. I opened a vein and the music poured in. Strangelove. Sacred. Pimpf. Little 15. Never let me down again.
When DM's next album, Violator, came out, they had changed. I had changed. They had shed the last remnants of their underground cloak and become fully mainstream. I had gotten into law school. I still liked the music. But there were other branches growing now, and the straight, black lines were not as appealing to me anymore. I bought suits. And ties. Besides, mainstream has never been my thing. I was more intrigued by Songs of Faith and Devotion, which came out in 1993. Partly because they had gotten heavier, truer, and partly because I was not as self-conscious as you are when you are entering law school and are trying to distance yourself from all the 'silly' things that you were devoted to as a teenager. When Ultra came out, in '97, I had at last become secure enough to embrace the music again. Plus they were even heavier, and rawer. And then, when Exciter came, in 2001, with a tour to boot, I drove up to Montréal with my wife and introduced her properly to DM, by taking her to a concert of theirs. She still talks about that strange man, vaguely resembling her husband, on his feet the whole time, yelling his lungs out to every song with the rest of the 20 thousand plus rabid fans.
Exciter is a delicious come-together of it all: The new wave roots, e.g. in I feel loved, Gore's solo aspirations, in Breathe, the heavy undertone in The Sweetest Condition. And then there is the ever-so precious and fragile beauty of Goodnight Lovers, which one has to go back to Somebody to find a match for. And again, the lyrics just write out the essence of me. Uncanny. Finally there is a lone guitar riff on this record which always manages to cause ripples in my soul. It's the last part of When the Body Speaks. When I hear it, I need only close my eyes, and I am instantly transferred down to the seaside in the city I grew up in, on a mild summer night, sort of like tonight, except there the sun is slowly climbing into the clear sky. The sea is calm and smooth like a mirror, and not a sound can be heard but for a few seagulls, yapping away. I have probably been downtown, dancing all night with friends that have since headed home to sleep, but I am stubbornly cheating the night out of my unconciousness, stealing the start of a day that looks just like an empty piece of paper, patiently waiting for me to write out what ever I want on it.
And now Playing the Angel is finally coming out. I just pre-ordered it on iTunes. And I'm also getting in on the ticket presale of the ensuing concert tour, Touring the Angel.
Call me a fan. But really, that music is simply an expression of me.
Monday, September 12, 2005
The comfort of routine
5:00 My wife wakes up, quietly slips from the bed and into the black early morning. I don't wake up any more.
7:00 Quiet sounds from my daughter's room, "Daaaddy? Dad?". A clean diaper, daytime clothes, hair brushed, oatmeal cooked while a book gets read. The table set, banana sliced into oatmeal, water poured into tall and small glasses. Cod liver oil and vitamin taken. Breakfast. Another book read. Dishes washed. The endless search for tiny shoes. Teeth brushed, two drops of baby fluoride on the tongue. Strapped into daddy's car. Off we go.
8:00 Daycare. As I walk out the door, I stop talking. Stop hearing other voices, seeing other eyes. For 8 1/2 hours:
8:15-4:45 Hopefully a lot of work gets done. E-mails answered, news read, lots of text of various usability gets hammered into the computer, stuff of various degrees of uselessness gets read, maybe something company related gets taken care of. Hopefully a bike tour gets squeezed in. If really, really energetic or restless, some work around the house as well. Who knows, one of these days I might actually build a deck in the back yard.
5:00 Daycare. A smiling ray of warm sunshine runs without exception to me, wraps her arms around my neck and says, ever so sweetly "Daddy!"
5:00-7:00 The park. Or the river. Or our back yard. Or just Borders for hot chocolate and some book on fire trucks. Cooking. Perhaps a beer. Mainly in summer, though.
7:00 My wife is back, ready for her dinner just before she falls asleep. So is my daughter. We eat. I hear about the often unbelievable reality that my wife lives in. My daughter chimes in with fragments of what her day brought: "Swimming pool", "Dog barked", "No touch!", "Nice to meet you", "Boo-boo on foot", "Gary puked".
8:00 I do dishes, while my wife brushes our daughter's teeth and puts her to bed. On occasion, a DVD gets watched, usually something short, like a TV episode. My wife crawls into bed. I am alone again. Do some more reading/browsing/listening/watching/dreaming/thinking, never ready to let the day go, until I have squeezed as much as I can from it.
10:00 I slip into bed. And dream some more.
7:00 Quiet sounds from my daughter's room, "Daaaddy? Dad?". A clean diaper, daytime clothes, hair brushed, oatmeal cooked while a book gets read. The table set, banana sliced into oatmeal, water poured into tall and small glasses. Cod liver oil and vitamin taken. Breakfast. Another book read. Dishes washed. The endless search for tiny shoes. Teeth brushed, two drops of baby fluoride on the tongue. Strapped into daddy's car. Off we go.
8:00 Daycare. As I walk out the door, I stop talking. Stop hearing other voices, seeing other eyes. For 8 1/2 hours:
8:15-4:45 Hopefully a lot of work gets done. E-mails answered, news read, lots of text of various usability gets hammered into the computer, stuff of various degrees of uselessness gets read, maybe something company related gets taken care of. Hopefully a bike tour gets squeezed in. If really, really energetic or restless, some work around the house as well. Who knows, one of these days I might actually build a deck in the back yard.
5:00 Daycare. A smiling ray of warm sunshine runs without exception to me, wraps her arms around my neck and says, ever so sweetly "Daddy!"
5:00-7:00 The park. Or the river. Or our back yard. Or just Borders for hot chocolate and some book on fire trucks. Cooking. Perhaps a beer. Mainly in summer, though.
7:00 My wife is back, ready for her dinner just before she falls asleep. So is my daughter. We eat. I hear about the often unbelievable reality that my wife lives in. My daughter chimes in with fragments of what her day brought: "Swimming pool", "Dog barked", "No touch!", "Nice to meet you", "Boo-boo on foot", "Gary puked".
8:00 I do dishes, while my wife brushes our daughter's teeth and puts her to bed. On occasion, a DVD gets watched, usually something short, like a TV episode. My wife crawls into bed. I am alone again. Do some more reading/browsing/listening/watching/dreaming/thinking, never ready to let the day go, until I have squeezed as much as I can from it.
10:00 I slip into bed. And dream some more.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
It's here
It may be four years, but it's here. It's all still here.
And it's still buried. Festering. Demoralizing. Scaring. Draining.
Perhaps for a brief moment, just after it happened, the shock seemed to spawn a greater unity, more tolerance. The rude awakening made us drop our masks. Trucker, preacher, professor, old, white, gay, young, fat, clerk, student, married, sister, brown, dancer, christian, father, thin, plumber, black, jew, singer, rich, accountant, president. Man. Woman. The labels got lost. For a moment. I was not here. But my wife was. And experienced it instantly. When I came back, a few weeks later. I could still see it, in the eyes of the customs officer at the airport. The disarmed, clear honesty. The hurt. The fright. I wanted to take that scared person in my arms. That overweight, uniformed, fifty-ish man. Comfort him. Tell him that it would be all right. That at heart, Americans had the warmth and strength not to let this consume their country. That now, this nation would prove that true strength to itself. And to the World, which had watched America go from Smalltown to Superpower in only half a century, could continue admiring this well-meaning, if sometimes overly simplistic people.
But it didn't last.
It has been a consistent, if not uniform, descent into suspiciousness, pessimism, cynicism, bullying, indifference, amoralism, anger, cruelty, hate.
The aftermath was an enormous, protracted, bloody, knee-jerk reaction. With the end nowhere in sight, even now. If a superpower gets hit, at least a few countries will need to be decimated. For every life of an American, a hundred lives of someone foreign enough so he won't have a face. Or a name. Just so that we can feel the revenge. We can close our eyes and experience the two wrongs make a right. Put our lives back in order. Give us our safety back.
And when that didn't work? Well, then the only thing to do was to try harder. In more perverse ways. Demand your rut back. "Go out and shop." "Your home is your castle." Can you remember how '0% financing' was actually marketed as Detroit's contribution to help make everything right again? How monumentally callous it seems today, but at the time, the numbness and surreality somehow made it look reasonable. Yes, if I buy a new car, it will help get things back on track. Plus it will make me feel good again. I mean, I bought a new car that spring. OK, maybe not for those reasons. Not conciously. But maybe I did, all the same.
So, what about this year? Well, this year, it is still the predominant elephant in the room. Because of the 'homeland security' myth/hysteria, it turns out all other security concerns were put on hold. Even natural disasters, and the response to them. FEMA has in the last decade gone from being represented by a cabinet position to becoming just another agency, to actually being tucked away in the travelling circus of lost agencies and fragmented departments that make up the Department of Homeland Security. And when this orphan suddenly gets put on the spot, it underperforms. Is anybody really surprised? Its fate was sealed. Four years ago. To the day.
But there's more. Not only can the roots of this impotence be directly traced back to this day, in 2001, but so can the responses to it. What would have happened if this angel of death, Katrina, had drawn her brush of devastation and pestulence over the southern coast of this country say five years ago, instead of now? Take a moment to think about it. Would the initial reaction be one of disgust, outcry and cynicism toward the federal government for being racist and elitist? Would the public's general consesus, a fortnight after the fact, really be that the powers to be looked at what was happening and coldly and calmly decided that the people dying where too black and too poor to be bothered with? Would any president remotely thinking of his own legacy, however stupid, do something that calculated to destroy himself? No, I don't think so either. If the response would really have been as limp and pathetic back then as it was now—which, as I said earlier, I do not believe—I know exactly what it would have been like: Outcry over ineptitute, deamands for resignations, senate hearings, the works, for sure. But not this outburst of general suspicion and depressive bitterness. No, this is something built-up. Something deeper. This is a people saying "Fool me once...". It's "You may get away with dragging us into a bloody war for no reason, while we are stunned and lost, but try it again and we just will not trust you again. Wheter that time it is by design or just because you are inept, arrogant idiots. Let's see how you like 'zero tolerance'."
I wish I was looking forward to this day in 2006.
But I don't.
And it's still buried. Festering. Demoralizing. Scaring. Draining.
Perhaps for a brief moment, just after it happened, the shock seemed to spawn a greater unity, more tolerance. The rude awakening made us drop our masks. Trucker, preacher, professor, old, white, gay, young, fat, clerk, student, married, sister, brown, dancer, christian, father, thin, plumber, black, jew, singer, rich, accountant, president. Man. Woman. The labels got lost. For a moment. I was not here. But my wife was. And experienced it instantly. When I came back, a few weeks later. I could still see it, in the eyes of the customs officer at the airport. The disarmed, clear honesty. The hurt. The fright. I wanted to take that scared person in my arms. That overweight, uniformed, fifty-ish man. Comfort him. Tell him that it would be all right. That at heart, Americans had the warmth and strength not to let this consume their country. That now, this nation would prove that true strength to itself. And to the World, which had watched America go from Smalltown to Superpower in only half a century, could continue admiring this well-meaning, if sometimes overly simplistic people.
But it didn't last.
It has been a consistent, if not uniform, descent into suspiciousness, pessimism, cynicism, bullying, indifference, amoralism, anger, cruelty, hate.
The aftermath was an enormous, protracted, bloody, knee-jerk reaction. With the end nowhere in sight, even now. If a superpower gets hit, at least a few countries will need to be decimated. For every life of an American, a hundred lives of someone foreign enough so he won't have a face. Or a name. Just so that we can feel the revenge. We can close our eyes and experience the two wrongs make a right. Put our lives back in order. Give us our safety back.
And when that didn't work? Well, then the only thing to do was to try harder. In more perverse ways. Demand your rut back. "Go out and shop." "Your home is your castle." Can you remember how '0% financing' was actually marketed as Detroit's contribution to help make everything right again? How monumentally callous it seems today, but at the time, the numbness and surreality somehow made it look reasonable. Yes, if I buy a new car, it will help get things back on track. Plus it will make me feel good again. I mean, I bought a new car that spring. OK, maybe not for those reasons. Not conciously. But maybe I did, all the same.
So, what about this year? Well, this year, it is still the predominant elephant in the room. Because of the 'homeland security' myth/hysteria, it turns out all other security concerns were put on hold. Even natural disasters, and the response to them. FEMA has in the last decade gone from being represented by a cabinet position to becoming just another agency, to actually being tucked away in the travelling circus of lost agencies and fragmented departments that make up the Department of Homeland Security. And when this orphan suddenly gets put on the spot, it underperforms. Is anybody really surprised? Its fate was sealed. Four years ago. To the day.
But there's more. Not only can the roots of this impotence be directly traced back to this day, in 2001, but so can the responses to it. What would have happened if this angel of death, Katrina, had drawn her brush of devastation and pestulence over the southern coast of this country say five years ago, instead of now? Take a moment to think about it. Would the initial reaction be one of disgust, outcry and cynicism toward the federal government for being racist and elitist? Would the public's general consesus, a fortnight after the fact, really be that the powers to be looked at what was happening and coldly and calmly decided that the people dying where too black and too poor to be bothered with? Would any president remotely thinking of his own legacy, however stupid, do something that calculated to destroy himself? No, I don't think so either. If the response would really have been as limp and pathetic back then as it was now—which, as I said earlier, I do not believe—I know exactly what it would have been like: Outcry over ineptitute, deamands for resignations, senate hearings, the works, for sure. But not this outburst of general suspicion and depressive bitterness. No, this is something built-up. Something deeper. This is a people saying "Fool me once...". It's "You may get away with dragging us into a bloody war for no reason, while we are stunned and lost, but try it again and we just will not trust you again. Wheter that time it is by design or just because you are inept, arrogant idiots. Let's see how you like 'zero tolerance'."
I wish I was looking forward to this day in 2006.
But I don't.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Night blogging
Wow. I just read that again. Well, for the first time, actually, since I really did not read it last night before publishing.
Man, what a whiny rant.
Ah well. 'Twas the thought. At the time.
So there.
P.S. In other news, I finally finished putting the windows in my little girl's bedroom. As you may remember, it was last winter that I framed it, put up the drywall, painted it and hung the doors. But this somehow never seemed important enough to finish. Until now.
Man, what a whiny rant.
Ah well. 'Twas the thought. At the time.
So there.
P.S. In other news, I finally finished putting the windows in my little girl's bedroom. As you may remember, it was last winter that I framed it, put up the drywall, painted it and hung the doors. But this somehow never seemed important enough to finish. Until now.
Men, the sucklings
Dreams make promises they can't keep,
they can swindle you while you sleep.
Morning finds you wondering why.
When we are young in dreams we trust,
so maybe growing up is just
kissing these certain dreams good-bye.
I could not sleep tonight, so I threw a DVD on the laser, hoping I'd doze off in front of it. It was Same Time, Next Year. I didn't see it on the stage when it made the rounds the last time, probably 15 years ago, so I only vaguely knew the set-up. It was sort-of suggested to me months (years?) ago, and I got the DVD, but somehow never got around to watcing it. Till tonight.
This version starred Ellen Burstyn and Alan Alda. The thing about Alda is that he really is not a really good actor, and he tends to always play that same, over-the-top character. And on top of it, the character in the play is not much more than a nauseating stereotypical American male: Chauvinistic, vain, and filled with fucked-up values, aggression, and an inferiority complex to boot.
But Burstyn was good. And sexy. In this one scene, she sports Marilyn-ish short, blonde, slightly curly locks, and pairs them with a black dress and diamonds. Not quite Miss Monroe, but loaded in her own right. And the character gets to just continue growing and getting stronger all the way through the movie, breaking through glass ceilings of education, self-esteem, and power. That part I did like. I find literally nothing as interesting or engaging as a smart, determined, and strong woman, flexing her muscles.
And then there is the story. As I said, the male lead is somewhat pathetic, so you really have to concentrate if you want to empathize with the guy. His selfishness and arrogance is just so overbearing that it makes it distinctly incredulous that this intelligent woman stays under his spell for all this time. Sure, we are lead to believe that she can see beyond that and into his 'real', considerably nicer self. How he really is a decent person underneath it all. Puh-lease.
Actually though, that is what women tend to do. And not just in this country. Bright, beautiful women go out every day and choose to spend their lives with obnoxious, fat, sweaty slobs, that are no match for them in any way. And to top it off, a woman like that will let her Neanderthal spend both their lives yapping about his own, tiny little world of pro football, Nascar or some other god-awful sport, some mind-numbingly boring interest such as fishing or bowling or computers, or to drive them around, way too fast and recklessly, in his ridiculously proportioned pick-up truck or loud, obese, gas-guzzling SUV. What could possibly be attractive about this picture? What is the allure? Curiosity?
Maybe that's the deal. Women's inate thirst for knowledge, coupled with their longing to conduct controlled experiments, mostly unfulfilled because of gender-biases in the school system and an almost total general lack of encouragement to study sciences in school rather than just languages and liberal arts, all of this makes it irresistable to them to take on these men, for clinical observation.
Lab rats? Pets? Makes sense to me. You try to come up with a better explanation.
they can swindle you while you sleep.
Morning finds you wondering why.
When we are young in dreams we trust,
so maybe growing up is just
kissing these certain dreams good-bye.
I could not sleep tonight, so I threw a DVD on the laser, hoping I'd doze off in front of it. It was Same Time, Next Year. I didn't see it on the stage when it made the rounds the last time, probably 15 years ago, so I only vaguely knew the set-up. It was sort-of suggested to me months (years?) ago, and I got the DVD, but somehow never got around to watcing it. Till tonight.
This version starred Ellen Burstyn and Alan Alda. The thing about Alda is that he really is not a really good actor, and he tends to always play that same, over-the-top character. And on top of it, the character in the play is not much more than a nauseating stereotypical American male: Chauvinistic, vain, and filled with fucked-up values, aggression, and an inferiority complex to boot.
But Burstyn was good. And sexy. In this one scene, she sports Marilyn-ish short, blonde, slightly curly locks, and pairs them with a black dress and diamonds. Not quite Miss Monroe, but loaded in her own right. And the character gets to just continue growing and getting stronger all the way through the movie, breaking through glass ceilings of education, self-esteem, and power. That part I did like. I find literally nothing as interesting or engaging as a smart, determined, and strong woman, flexing her muscles.
And then there is the story. As I said, the male lead is somewhat pathetic, so you really have to concentrate if you want to empathize with the guy. His selfishness and arrogance is just so overbearing that it makes it distinctly incredulous that this intelligent woman stays under his spell for all this time. Sure, we are lead to believe that she can see beyond that and into his 'real', considerably nicer self. How he really is a decent person underneath it all. Puh-lease.
Actually though, that is what women tend to do. And not just in this country. Bright, beautiful women go out every day and choose to spend their lives with obnoxious, fat, sweaty slobs, that are no match for them in any way. And to top it off, a woman like that will let her Neanderthal spend both their lives yapping about his own, tiny little world of pro football, Nascar or some other god-awful sport, some mind-numbingly boring interest such as fishing or bowling or computers, or to drive them around, way too fast and recklessly, in his ridiculously proportioned pick-up truck or loud, obese, gas-guzzling SUV. What could possibly be attractive about this picture? What is the allure? Curiosity?
Maybe that's the deal. Women's inate thirst for knowledge, coupled with their longing to conduct controlled experiments, mostly unfulfilled because of gender-biases in the school system and an almost total general lack of encouragement to study sciences in school rather than just languages and liberal arts, all of this makes it irresistable to them to take on these men, for clinical observation.
Lab rats? Pets? Makes sense to me. You try to come up with a better explanation.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Elevator angels
I have been meaning to blog this for a while now. Weeks, possibly months. And it was always to be entitled "Elevator angels". It was to be a fairly benign post about biking. And how nice it is. Uplifting. Hence the hook to CocoRosie's line about how Jimmy Morrison "...has his elevator angels", since I still almost always end up with that song in my ears when I go out biking. Finally, I thought I'd wrap it up with an interesting anectode about how the drivers here—who usually are among the most careful and calm that I have ever met—simply can not stay behind a guy on a bike. Even when he is going 30 in a 25 mph zone. Or even 45 in a 35 mph zone. They just have to pass. Over double yellow lines. Around blind corners. Through intersections. Anything. It is as if their sanity just takes leave of them while in the presence of someone on a bike.
Anyways, as it turns out, that is not the blog ended up with in my head.
Maybe it was just too banal. Or too diary-like. Or maybe I am just stuck in my pretentious navel-exploration of these last few months.
OK, so here is what I ended up with: I still can't figure out who Morrison's elevator angels are. I just like the image. My best guess is that oft-quoted Village Voice interview with him. In it, he describes some superficial experience with an all-glass elevator in a hotel in Atlanta, presumably Georgia. In the interview he also talks about Saint Nicholas, who CocoRosie describe as "a different type of Santa Claus". So that's my guess. But the thing about Morrison is that from what I have read of him, and about him, he was a fake. I mean, he was just an act. A façade. But still. I am haunted by some of the stuff I have read by him. I mean, behind seemingly endless plastic "I looked at you. You looked at me. I smiled at you. You smiled at me."-crap, there are still words like "The hitchhiker stood by the side of the road and leveled his thumb in the calm calculus of reason." and "Dead president's corpse in the driver's car. The engine runs on glue and tar. Come on along, not going very far. To the East, to meet the Czar." and even more importantly "The days are bright and filled with pain. Enclose me in your gentle rain. The time you ran was too insane. We'll meet again, we'll meet again."
Then, all this stuff from just a line in a song that I hear when I bike gets me thinking about our mind, and how it is an amazing muscle, and if you give it the same tiny bit to chew on almost every day for an hour or two, with nothing else to do except stearing clear of crazy, passing cars, then it will just chew and chew on that tiny bit until it has sucked every last drop of taste from it. Give a monkey infinite time to type away at a typewriter (anybody remember them?), and he will eventually spew out Shakespeare unabridged. An idle mind, the devil's workshop? Definitely. No question. Just see where this goes:
So I am at the monkey-with-a-typewriter stage, and where does that lead me? Straight into open source, and the power of it. How throwing enough people at a problem will solve it, despite the complexity of the task and the relative lack of knowledge of each member of the group. Which predictably leads me to the recent 'revelation' in the mainstream media that it is increasingly Chinese hackers that are testing the waters at .mil servers these days, and how people just don't get black hats. "Why do they do that?" and "How can they do that?". All the while missing the point, that if you had a couple of million people standing on your lawn, discussing what would be the best way to get into your house, you probably could not find a good enough lock either to hold all that they would throw at it.
And from there I went into some gray-hat territory, while another little person in a big-ass 10 person SUV overtook me, going downhill at already something liberally over the modest speed limit.
All your base are belong to us!
Confusing? Yes. Pointless? Yes. Crap? Yes.
...
Anyways, as it turns out, that is not the blog ended up with in my head.
Maybe it was just too banal. Or too diary-like. Or maybe I am just stuck in my pretentious navel-exploration of these last few months.
OK, so here is what I ended up with: I still can't figure out who Morrison's elevator angels are. I just like the image. My best guess is that oft-quoted Village Voice interview with him. In it, he describes some superficial experience with an all-glass elevator in a hotel in Atlanta, presumably Georgia. In the interview he also talks about Saint Nicholas, who CocoRosie describe as "a different type of Santa Claus". So that's my guess. But the thing about Morrison is that from what I have read of him, and about him, he was a fake. I mean, he was just an act. A façade. But still. I am haunted by some of the stuff I have read by him. I mean, behind seemingly endless plastic "I looked at you. You looked at me. I smiled at you. You smiled at me."-crap, there are still words like "The hitchhiker stood by the side of the road and leveled his thumb in the calm calculus of reason." and "Dead president's corpse in the driver's car. The engine runs on glue and tar. Come on along, not going very far. To the East, to meet the Czar." and even more importantly "The days are bright and filled with pain. Enclose me in your gentle rain. The time you ran was too insane. We'll meet again, we'll meet again."
Then, all this stuff from just a line in a song that I hear when I bike gets me thinking about our mind, and how it is an amazing muscle, and if you give it the same tiny bit to chew on almost every day for an hour or two, with nothing else to do except stearing clear of crazy, passing cars, then it will just chew and chew on that tiny bit until it has sucked every last drop of taste from it. Give a monkey infinite time to type away at a typewriter (anybody remember them?), and he will eventually spew out Shakespeare unabridged. An idle mind, the devil's workshop? Definitely. No question. Just see where this goes:
So I am at the monkey-with-a-typewriter stage, and where does that lead me? Straight into open source, and the power of it. How throwing enough people at a problem will solve it, despite the complexity of the task and the relative lack of knowledge of each member of the group. Which predictably leads me to the recent 'revelation' in the mainstream media that it is increasingly Chinese hackers that are testing the waters at .mil servers these days, and how people just don't get black hats. "Why do they do that?" and "How can they do that?". All the while missing the point, that if you had a couple of million people standing on your lawn, discussing what would be the best way to get into your house, you probably could not find a good enough lock either to hold all that they would throw at it.
And from there I went into some gray-hat territory, while another little person in a big-ass 10 person SUV overtook me, going downhill at already something liberally over the modest speed limit.
All your base are belong to us!
Confusing? Yes. Pointless? Yes. Crap? Yes.
...
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Friday, August 19, 2005
Responsible father
I am not very safe to live with. or next to, for that matter.
Here I live in this three floors of wood, and I keep doing things like putting a pot of water on the stove, and then not having the patience to wait for it to boil. So I wander off into the living room and start reading a book, and forgetting all about that pot on the stove.
Idiot.
And now I have a kid, to boot. Not very responsible. Not very responsible at all.
Speaking of my daughter. I have blogged a few photos of her over the last couple of years, and people have been praising me for how good I am with the camera. Not true, I've told them. She is just so natural, and so beautiful. And now I have the proof. Just look at her through the lens of a real photographer (sorry about the deep linking, JonZ).
I just can't take my eyes of her.
Here I live in this three floors of wood, and I keep doing things like putting a pot of water on the stove, and then not having the patience to wait for it to boil. So I wander off into the living room and start reading a book, and forgetting all about that pot on the stove.
Idiot.
And now I have a kid, to boot. Not very responsible. Not very responsible at all.
Speaking of my daughter. I have blogged a few photos of her over the last couple of years, and people have been praising me for how good I am with the camera. Not true, I've told them. She is just so natural, and so beautiful. And now I have the proof. Just look at her through the lens of a real photographer (sorry about the deep linking, JonZ).
I just can't take my eyes of her.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Being honest
Recently, I have had both cause and opportunity to take a harder look at myself than I have done in a long time.
The opportunity: After finishing one of the larger work projects that I have taken on these last few years, suddenly there has been time to take stock. To ponder other things than work, while running a myriad of small errands that had been put on the back burner while The Project got finished. Like trimming the trees. Having the car serviced. So, I have been driving from the bank to the bike shop to the hardware store, thinking about me, myself and the people that I know.
And then there is the cause.
If I were one of those people that believe that the World revolves around them, I would probably think that its tolerance for me had just gone into short supply. It is not so much that I have been having a bad day. Or days. You know those days, when you take your old car to have the exhaust patched and they estimate it at $100 but it turns out to be $300, which incidentally did happen to me yesterday. No, this has been me, all me. Incidences that suggest that other people do not see me as I think they do. Or I would like them to. That what I mean to do is not coming across right. And that I just may not be as good a person as I think I am. It is not that I am just a misguided do-gooder, which I dislike, but I just might be somewhat of a selfish bastard. Which is atrocious.
It is not easy to own up to stuff like this, especially when the evidence is disparate and incidental. But I do crave honesty, and if I will not honestly connect the dots on my own, then how can I expect myself to be honest in interactions with other people? So here are the candid facts: Within the span of a few days, I have been told, by one of the most tolerant men I know, that I have become overbearing to him. And he is absolutely right. Granted, he did not categorize it that way. But that is still what has happened. And during another phonecall, the day before yesterday, I finally realized that my relationship with a dear friend was not the close, supportive, and sweet bond I thought it was. Instead, I have been taking advantage of that friend's weakness for kindness. Literally praying on it. And that breaks my heart. Plus, there is nothing left to do, once you have said you are sorry. Except to let time pass.
I don't know. I just do not know. Perhaps this is the test that I, as a human being, am put to every now and then. Life holds up this mirror to my face and I either flinch, or look straight into it. Not just to see what I mean to do. What I want to be. Like to see. Look past the benevolent intentions and righteous opinions, and actually see myself as the person I really am. And in that moment, let go of the primal urge to justify my actions. And then I am hopefully ready to change what I can change. And to accept, not expect, as someone kindly told me, many years ago.
The insiduous part of it all is that I feel no malice. I do not act out of malevolence to others. I harbor no black beast. I can honestly say that I bear no ill will to any of the people I interact with. Or more specifically, I have no interactions with people I do not like. That is my protective mechanism. I instinctly avoid people that I resent. We all do, to some degree, but I suspect that I may be more prone to such exclusions than other people. On the other hand, I am definitely more intimate to those that I do connect with. I invariably seek a deep connection with my friends. I yearn for truly connecting with other people, for bluntness and candor, for implicit trust. I feel literally none of the apprehension that normal people feel with getting to know someone 'too fast'. It has become quite apparent that I lack the fine-tuning of barriers that people generally erect between themselves and their friends. I have trouble creating that scale of fine granularity running from 'friends' all the way to 'close friends'. I seem to only have friends. And then other people, like acquaintances, colleagues, clients, etc. My friends get more or less the same of me. My attention, my time, my honesty, my support, my trust, my belief, my heart. But that is just my attitute, not a description of what friends 'ought' to do. Therefore, I have to be ever watchful that I not automatically expect the same unruly, even naïve, kind of friendship in return. This is especially true since quite many of my friends are rather private people, even reserved.
Take my best friend for example. My wife. We have been friends for twenty years. When we first met, back in 1985, she immediately 'got' me. She recognized my unrestrained nature, and just accepted it. Which is more than I could expect anyone to do. And we became friends right away. But she is in so many ways nothing like me. Although she has changed somewhat as the years have gone by, she is at heart a very private person. Despite her acceptance of my disposition, she lets few people near herself, and doesn't try to 'devour' her friends like I tend to do. She simply does not seem to need other people to the same degree that I do.
As I have said now and then on these pages, I crave communicating with other people. I am fascinated by them. Without subscribing to any sort of 'pinnacle of Creation'-ideas, I find man to be simply fascinating. And I do believe that each and every one of us is a precious universe in and by ourself. In my mind, it is an absolute privilege to be able to not only be alive, but to be alive with all these other people, and to be able to communicate with them. Connect with them. Experience this marvel of Life with them. To see our existence through their eyes. To see yourself reflected in them. It is in these truths that I find life to be truly too short. And that may also be the cause of my unruly attitute towards it. My lack of restraint when interacting with my friends. My clumsiness with correct labels for peoples relationships. My inability to pause, to relent, to find moderation, to step back and let time pass.
But I am going to stop here, because I believe that one can easily go in one continuous succession from seeing a problem, acknowledging it, to finding its causes, and then slide right into justifying it, and I want to stop just short of that.
The opportunity: After finishing one of the larger work projects that I have taken on these last few years, suddenly there has been time to take stock. To ponder other things than work, while running a myriad of small errands that had been put on the back burner while The Project got finished. Like trimming the trees. Having the car serviced. So, I have been driving from the bank to the bike shop to the hardware store, thinking about me, myself and the people that I know.
And then there is the cause.
If I were one of those people that believe that the World revolves around them, I would probably think that its tolerance for me had just gone into short supply. It is not so much that I have been having a bad day. Or days. You know those days, when you take your old car to have the exhaust patched and they estimate it at $100 but it turns out to be $300, which incidentally did happen to me yesterday. No, this has been me, all me. Incidences that suggest that other people do not see me as I think they do. Or I would like them to. That what I mean to do is not coming across right. And that I just may not be as good a person as I think I am. It is not that I am just a misguided do-gooder, which I dislike, but I just might be somewhat of a selfish bastard. Which is atrocious.
It is not easy to own up to stuff like this, especially when the evidence is disparate and incidental. But I do crave honesty, and if I will not honestly connect the dots on my own, then how can I expect myself to be honest in interactions with other people? So here are the candid facts: Within the span of a few days, I have been told, by one of the most tolerant men I know, that I have become overbearing to him. And he is absolutely right. Granted, he did not categorize it that way. But that is still what has happened. And during another phonecall, the day before yesterday, I finally realized that my relationship with a dear friend was not the close, supportive, and sweet bond I thought it was. Instead, I have been taking advantage of that friend's weakness for kindness. Literally praying on it. And that breaks my heart. Plus, there is nothing left to do, once you have said you are sorry. Except to let time pass.
I don't know. I just do not know. Perhaps this is the test that I, as a human being, am put to every now and then. Life holds up this mirror to my face and I either flinch, or look straight into it. Not just to see what I mean to do. What I want to be. Like to see. Look past the benevolent intentions and righteous opinions, and actually see myself as the person I really am. And in that moment, let go of the primal urge to justify my actions. And then I am hopefully ready to change what I can change. And to accept, not expect, as someone kindly told me, many years ago.
The insiduous part of it all is that I feel no malice. I do not act out of malevolence to others. I harbor no black beast. I can honestly say that I bear no ill will to any of the people I interact with. Or more specifically, I have no interactions with people I do not like. That is my protective mechanism. I instinctly avoid people that I resent. We all do, to some degree, but I suspect that I may be more prone to such exclusions than other people. On the other hand, I am definitely more intimate to those that I do connect with. I invariably seek a deep connection with my friends. I yearn for truly connecting with other people, for bluntness and candor, for implicit trust. I feel literally none of the apprehension that normal people feel with getting to know someone 'too fast'. It has become quite apparent that I lack the fine-tuning of barriers that people generally erect between themselves and their friends. I have trouble creating that scale of fine granularity running from 'friends' all the way to 'close friends'. I seem to only have friends. And then other people, like acquaintances, colleagues, clients, etc. My friends get more or less the same of me. My attention, my time, my honesty, my support, my trust, my belief, my heart. But that is just my attitute, not a description of what friends 'ought' to do. Therefore, I have to be ever watchful that I not automatically expect the same unruly, even naïve, kind of friendship in return. This is especially true since quite many of my friends are rather private people, even reserved.
Take my best friend for example. My wife. We have been friends for twenty years. When we first met, back in 1985, she immediately 'got' me. She recognized my unrestrained nature, and just accepted it. Which is more than I could expect anyone to do. And we became friends right away. But she is in so many ways nothing like me. Although she has changed somewhat as the years have gone by, she is at heart a very private person. Despite her acceptance of my disposition, she lets few people near herself, and doesn't try to 'devour' her friends like I tend to do. She simply does not seem to need other people to the same degree that I do.
As I have said now and then on these pages, I crave communicating with other people. I am fascinated by them. Without subscribing to any sort of 'pinnacle of Creation'-ideas, I find man to be simply fascinating. And I do believe that each and every one of us is a precious universe in and by ourself. In my mind, it is an absolute privilege to be able to not only be alive, but to be alive with all these other people, and to be able to communicate with them. Connect with them. Experience this marvel of Life with them. To see our existence through their eyes. To see yourself reflected in them. It is in these truths that I find life to be truly too short. And that may also be the cause of my unruly attitute towards it. My lack of restraint when interacting with my friends. My clumsiness with correct labels for peoples relationships. My inability to pause, to relent, to find moderation, to step back and let time pass.
But I am going to stop here, because I believe that one can easily go in one continuous succession from seeing a problem, acknowledging it, to finding its causes, and then slide right into justifying it, and I want to stop just short of that.
Sunday, August 7, 2005
The Condor
It can be astonishing to see how old books or movies or plays or poetry can suddenly become vividly relevant, or chillingly realistic. Its thought, previously collecting dust, suddenly springing forth and becoming as real as tomorrow's news.
Sidney Pollack is one of those prolific directors, and now a days mostly producer, who does it all monkey style: He hammers away at that proverbial typewriter, spewing out a few Shakespearean gems every now and then, just through the sheer volume of his output. He has produced more than forty films, e.g. They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, Tootsie, Out of Africa, The Firm, and The Interpreter. He has also directed more than twenty pictures, such as Absence of Malice, Sliding Doors, The Talented Mr. Ripley, The Quiet American, and Cold Mountain. He's even done some acting, in a dozen or so films. I liked him in the otherwise mostly banal Eyes Wide Shut. Mostly banal I say, although I've had it in the back of my mind to see it again, to give it another chance. What if most of it is actually a dream sequence?
But I digress. Just as I was starting to dose off tonight at the end of Pollack's rather predictable Three Days of the Condor, it suddenly became a startlingly realistic, relevant, and up-to-date film. In like just the last minutes of it. It rang horribly true.
Uncanny.
Find it. And see it.
Sidney Pollack is one of those prolific directors, and now a days mostly producer, who does it all monkey style: He hammers away at that proverbial typewriter, spewing out a few Shakespearean gems every now and then, just through the sheer volume of his output. He has produced more than forty films, e.g. They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, Tootsie, Out of Africa, The Firm, and The Interpreter. He has also directed more than twenty pictures, such as Absence of Malice, Sliding Doors, The Talented Mr. Ripley, The Quiet American, and Cold Mountain. He's even done some acting, in a dozen or so films. I liked him in the otherwise mostly banal Eyes Wide Shut. Mostly banal I say, although I've had it in the back of my mind to see it again, to give it another chance. What if most of it is actually a dream sequence?
But I digress. Just as I was starting to dose off tonight at the end of Pollack's rather predictable Three Days of the Condor, it suddenly became a startlingly realistic, relevant, and up-to-date film. In like just the last minutes of it. It rang horribly true.
Uncanny.
Find it. And see it.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
I am glad you called though
My geek interests are not a very limited. In fact they are quite broad. And diverse. One area of fascination to me is the computer interface, and in particular, text-to-speech and the holy grail, speech recognition. Perhaps it all began with dear Scotty. That would make sense.
Part of my fascination stems from the realization that one day, it is actually going to work. And that will have some consequences which people generally don't realize today. Take the common complaint that no matter where you call nowadays, you never get a human on the other end of the line, only a computer.
Well what happens when you can't tell the difference any more?
Speech interfaces are putting more and more emphasis on imitating the conversation, not just delivering raw text-to-speech. Idle chit-chats and pleasantries actually add an eerie quality to computer speech. Yes, that one is a work in progress, and yes, it is nowhere near there yet, but you can still envision where it is going.
Like what you see?
Part of my fascination stems from the realization that one day, it is actually going to work. And that will have some consequences which people generally don't realize today. Take the common complaint that no matter where you call nowadays, you never get a human on the other end of the line, only a computer.
Well what happens when you can't tell the difference any more?
Speech interfaces are putting more and more emphasis on imitating the conversation, not just delivering raw text-to-speech. Idle chit-chats and pleasantries actually add an eerie quality to computer speech. Yes, that one is a work in progress, and yes, it is nowhere near there yet, but you can still envision where it is going.
Like what you see?
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
The finger
Back in pseudo-geek mode. Is that my shelter, perhaps?
Anyways.
Over the last few years, I have successfully managed to change my working life so that I am no longer plagued by incessant cell phone calls. Quitting my jobs, starting new companies with me doing virtually no day-to-day fronting, moving a couple of thousand miles, and changing all my phone numbers seem to have done the trick. Not that I did all that to stop the phone from beeping. No, that was just a pleasant side effect.
But that has not cut down on annoying beep-beep interruptions when I am talking to other people, face to face. No, now it is just their phones beeping twice as much. So what to do?
Put on the ring.
Anyways.
Over the last few years, I have successfully managed to change my working life so that I am no longer plagued by incessant cell phone calls. Quitting my jobs, starting new companies with me doing virtually no day-to-day fronting, moving a couple of thousand miles, and changing all my phone numbers seem to have done the trick. Not that I did all that to stop the phone from beeping. No, that was just a pleasant side effect.
But that has not cut down on annoying beep-beep interruptions when I am talking to other people, face to face. No, now it is just their phones beeping twice as much. So what to do?
Put on the ring.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Under
Perhaps you know the feeling. Hopefully not.
You are swimming. Or diving. Going deeper and deeper between coming up for air. Spending longer and longer time under the water each time. And then, when you're returning to the surface from one of those strokes, or dives, you all of a sudden find that the water is taller than you thought.
Instantly, you enter fight-or-flee mode. Your pulse quickens, you feel a burning sensation in your lungs, as you kick extra-hard to get to the surface. Time slows to a crawl, and you start seeing things in slow-motion. As your vision gets that red tint, and your ears start to ring, you could swear that you can taste blood in your mouth. As you push yourself desperately those last few feet onto the top of the water mass, you are equally amazed at how much further up it turned out to be as you are of the fact that you were able to get there. That you actually had the reserve energy. That you lived. And for that briefest of moments, you are totally alive. You live in that blink of an eye.
I have had my share of this happening in real-life. Those encounters leave you with memories, sometimes nightmares, but also profound gratitute, plus some valuable life lessons. Such as "Darwin is out to get you".
But while those physical ones are manageable, if challenging, they pale in comparison with what happens when life becomes the water. Now, let me be clear. It isn't that living life becomes a burden to me. It never does. Perhaps I had a touch of that when I was a teenager, but the never got to being even a mild depression. So that's not it. Besides, what are teenage years without a few crisis?
No, I never question life or the value of living it. They will have to "pry it from my cold, dead fingers", so to speak. But while living it, I will encounter facts that I can find immesurably hard to bear. At first, I will just flat out deny them. That buys me a few months. Or years. But then, eventually, they will come back to me. And the horror of them start to sink in. The cold, hard "truth" of the matter. I may have my fine life, career, family, friends, everything. But that just is not enough. I still have this fundamental need. I just know that there is this thing that is not right. I feel a monumental need to right that wrong. But I don't know how to do that. And from time to time I start to think that I just can't. That I never will.
And that's when I go under.
Apparently, drowning does turn from being this frightening elongated moment of terror, into a rather pleasant state of calm and relaxation, once you succumb to it. Maybe that is Nature's way of saying "Hey, you tried your utmost to keep yourself alive, but since it is obvious that you can't, then there is no point in turning your last moments into a misery." In some ways, I wish I could just let this go. Just drop calmly into my assigned role of a husband, a father, an employer, an employee, a consumer, whatever. It is as if I can hear somebody saying "Don't fight it son. Confess quickly! If you hold out too long you could jeopardize your credit rating."
But it is not possible. You simply can't go and drown yourself. And neither can I just decide to let go. If you feel something deeply, then you do. It is as simple as that. Even if you still have no idea what to do about it. So you are left with enduring. And fighting that wall of water every time you have to. Maybe that is the whole point of it all. Who knows?
"Return, I will. To old Brazil."
You are swimming. Or diving. Going deeper and deeper between coming up for air. Spending longer and longer time under the water each time. And then, when you're returning to the surface from one of those strokes, or dives, you all of a sudden find that the water is taller than you thought.
Instantly, you enter fight-or-flee mode. Your pulse quickens, you feel a burning sensation in your lungs, as you kick extra-hard to get to the surface. Time slows to a crawl, and you start seeing things in slow-motion. As your vision gets that red tint, and your ears start to ring, you could swear that you can taste blood in your mouth. As you push yourself desperately those last few feet onto the top of the water mass, you are equally amazed at how much further up it turned out to be as you are of the fact that you were able to get there. That you actually had the reserve energy. That you lived. And for that briefest of moments, you are totally alive. You live in that blink of an eye.
I have had my share of this happening in real-life. Those encounters leave you with memories, sometimes nightmares, but also profound gratitute, plus some valuable life lessons. Such as "Darwin is out to get you".
But while those physical ones are manageable, if challenging, they pale in comparison with what happens when life becomes the water. Now, let me be clear. It isn't that living life becomes a burden to me. It never does. Perhaps I had a touch of that when I was a teenager, but the never got to being even a mild depression. So that's not it. Besides, what are teenage years without a few crisis?
No, I never question life or the value of living it. They will have to "pry it from my cold, dead fingers", so to speak. But while living it, I will encounter facts that I can find immesurably hard to bear. At first, I will just flat out deny them. That buys me a few months. Or years. But then, eventually, they will come back to me. And the horror of them start to sink in. The cold, hard "truth" of the matter. I may have my fine life, career, family, friends, everything. But that just is not enough. I still have this fundamental need. I just know that there is this thing that is not right. I feel a monumental need to right that wrong. But I don't know how to do that. And from time to time I start to think that I just can't. That I never will.
And that's when I go under.
Apparently, drowning does turn from being this frightening elongated moment of terror, into a rather pleasant state of calm and relaxation, once you succumb to it. Maybe that is Nature's way of saying "Hey, you tried your utmost to keep yourself alive, but since it is obvious that you can't, then there is no point in turning your last moments into a misery." In some ways, I wish I could just let this go. Just drop calmly into my assigned role of a husband, a father, an employer, an employee, a consumer, whatever. It is as if I can hear somebody saying "Don't fight it son. Confess quickly! If you hold out too long you could jeopardize your credit rating."
But it is not possible. You simply can't go and drown yourself. And neither can I just decide to let go. If you feel something deeply, then you do. It is as simple as that. Even if you still have no idea what to do about it. So you are left with enduring. And fighting that wall of water every time you have to. Maybe that is the whole point of it all. Who knows?
"Return, I will. To old Brazil."
Monday, July 25, 2005
Eyes
I know, I know. At the core, I really am just gadget-crazy. The only reason I am not waiting in line (yet), is that they don't have any astigmatic models (again, yet).
What is it about the eyes, anyway? Even though I am blind as a bat without my contacts/glasses, I would never, ever even consider doing something like this. They are just sacred, somehow. Considering how visually oriented I am, they constitute my most precious sense.
But the eyes are also something more. I sometimes feel like I have mine on loan, or something. 'Windows of the soul' really is no exaggeration. Not only are you outfitted with a pair of them, allowing you to drink in more of your life, as it passes you by, then you could ever do with the rest of your senses. But on top of that, when you use them to look into another person's eyes, you can see a whole other world.
You realize that we are little universes, bumping against each others. And you just might close your eyes for a moment, and quietly say your thanks for being alive to experience it all.
What is it about the eyes, anyway? Even though I am blind as a bat without my contacts/glasses, I would never, ever even consider doing something like this. They are just sacred, somehow. Considering how visually oriented I am, they constitute my most precious sense.
But the eyes are also something more. I sometimes feel like I have mine on loan, or something. 'Windows of the soul' really is no exaggeration. Not only are you outfitted with a pair of them, allowing you to drink in more of your life, as it passes you by, then you could ever do with the rest of your senses. But on top of that, when you use them to look into another person's eyes, you can see a whole other world.
You realize that we are little universes, bumping against each others. And you just might close your eyes for a moment, and quietly say your thanks for being alive to experience it all.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Saturday, July 23, 2005
The wonderful world of syndication
Isn't syndication wonderful?
No, I don't mean the RSS/Atom/etc. syndication of XML content, e.g. blogs. No, I mean news syndication. Reuters. AP. The way one reporter can instantaneously post a story to more than one news publications at once. Actually, a lot of them. Dozens. Hundreds.
Take this guy, Jeremy Pugmire. He's a staff AP sports writer. Which in itself sounds mind-numbingly boring. Images of pig-like NFL announcers, shouting something about men in tights piling on top of each others, flash by. But no. Jeremy is writing about something else. Cycling. We like Jeremy. He gives us news about how the 'old man' is doing. Which is the first thing I checked after finishing my 20 mile sprint this morning.
Jeremy's writings, as a virtue of his AP status, get syndicated. A lot. Fifty minutes ago, a piece of his on the Tour's last time trial this year, which is going on right now, got published. So I cobbled together some code and did a little rummaging online, using only the .com TLD. Within the first hour, how many do you think had picked up and published Jeremy's piece? Not just one paper. Or two. But seventy-one!
No, I am not kidding. Take a look:
Seventy-one.
The affluent part of mankind really is constantly moving closer and closer together. The global village? Forget that. Try the global appartment building. With all the late-night practicing on the trombone, the headache of agreeing on what color to paint the staircase, plus the obnoxious fumes from across the hall, where some idiot is eating fermented shark.
No, I don't mean the RSS/Atom/etc. syndication of XML content, e.g. blogs. No, I mean news syndication. Reuters. AP. The way one reporter can instantaneously post a story to more than one news publications at once. Actually, a lot of them. Dozens. Hundreds.
Take this guy, Jeremy Pugmire. He's a staff AP sports writer. Which in itself sounds mind-numbingly boring. Images of pig-like NFL announcers, shouting something about men in tights piling on top of each others, flash by. But no. Jeremy is writing about something else. Cycling. We like Jeremy. He gives us news about how the 'old man' is doing. Which is the first thing I checked after finishing my 20 mile sprint this morning.
Jeremy's writings, as a virtue of his AP status, get syndicated. A lot. Fifty minutes ago, a piece of his on the Tour's last time trial this year, which is going on right now, got published. So I cobbled together some code and did a little rummaging online, using only the .com TLD. Within the first hour, how many do you think had picked up and published Jeremy's piece? Not just one paper. Or two. But seventy-one!
No, I am not kidding. Take a look:
- Bonner County Daily Bee, ID
- Carthage Press, MO
- In-Forum (subscription), ND
- Carlisle Sentinel, PA
- KFSN, CA
- Mt. Carmel Daily Republican Register, IL
- Daily Independent, CA
- Skagit Valley Herald, WA
- Santa Maria Times, CA
- Penn Live, PA
- McCurtain Daily Gazette, OK
- Lodi News-Sentinel, CA
- North County Times, CA
- Petoskey News-Review, MI
- Daily Inter Lake, MT
- Princeton Times, WV
- Bismarck Tribune, USA
- Corvallis Gazette Times, OR
- Ceres Courier, CA
- Suffolk News-Herald, VA
- The Porterville Recorder, CA
- Kansas City Kansan, KS
- Jefferson City News Tribune, MO
- Tahlequah Daily Press, OK
- MLive.com, MI
- Times Picayune, LA
- In-Forum (subscription), ND
- Carthage Press, MO
- Bonner County Daily Bee, ID
- Gadsden Times (subscription), AL
- Record-Journal, CT
- Rapid City Journal, SD
- Waterloo Cedar Falls Courier, IA
- In-Forum (subscription), ND
- Canton Daily Ledger, IL
- Daily Press, VA
- Orlando Sentinel, FL
- Greenwich Time, CT
- Carlisle Sentinel, PA
- Allentown Morning Call, PA
- Wyoming News, WY
- Santa Maria Times, CA
- Skagit Valley Herald, WA
- Los Angeles Times, CA
- Mt. Carmel Daily Republican Register, IL
- Daily Independent, CA
- Stamford Advocate, CT
- Sun-Sentinel.com, FL
- Lodi News-Sentinel, CA
- Petoskey News-Review, MI
- Daily Inter Lake, MT
- McCurtain Daily Gazette, OK
- Tahlequah Daily Press, OK
- North County Times, CA
- San Marcos Daily Record, TX
- Corvallis Gazette Times, OR
- Brenham Banner Press, United States
- Suffolk News-Herald, VA
- Albany Times Union, NY
- Jefferson City News Tribune, MO
- Kansas City Kansan, KS
- Bismarck Tribune, USA
- The Porterville Recorder, CA
- Sarasota Herald-Tribune, FL
- Dateline Alabama, AL
- San Marcos Daily Record, TX
- Waterloo Cedar Falls Courier, IA
- Rapid City Journal, SD
- New Albany Tribune, IN
- The Missoulian, MT
- Gainesville Sun, FL
Seventy-one.
The affluent part of mankind really is constantly moving closer and closer together. The global village? Forget that. Try the global appartment building. With all the late-night practicing on the trombone, the headache of agreeing on what color to paint the staircase, plus the obnoxious fumes from across the hall, where some idiot is eating fermented shark.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
To boldly go
Here's me, saying "Beam me up, Scotty", one last time.
What I find strangely heart-warming is that he left on the anniversary of our one giant leap, which took place exactly 36 years ago.
To the minute.
What I find strangely heart-warming is that he left on the anniversary of our one giant leap, which took place exactly 36 years ago.
To the minute.
Death is creeping in
It is numbing to see this country slowly sink into the red. It was a red victory, last November, and it served as a symbol of the red that is already here, and a harbinger of the red to come: The red blood of a country invaded. The red in the eyes of an administration, a congress, a people acting on their anger, their hurt, their post-9/11-vulnerability. The omnipresent red alert signs of terror. The red haze blinding the once sane people that curse France, pray to Fox, and turn a blind eye to Gitmo. The red ink needed to pay for all this bloodlust, since this angry mob was not about to pay for it themselves, with their taxes.
And now, the red states' overflowing streams of blood are running upwards. I have already blogged Connecticut's first execution in 45 years, last May. Last week, it was Massachusetts' turn, as their governor suggested to lawmakers that the death penalty be re-instated in the state. The traditionally sane, blue states—those that fought against slavery, started this country's fight for independence, ignited the civil rights movement, led the fight against the Vietnam war, and have for the most part turned their back on the barbaric practice of state-operated slaughter of human beings—are slowly succumbing to the cry for blood.
This time around, it's Vermont. Last week, a jury in Burlington, VT sentenced a man to be exterminated. This act of God-impersonating was based on a federal statute, not Vermont state law, since the state does not have such savagery on the books anymore. But now, Duncan Kilmartin, a sleazy member of the state legislature, seeks to capitalize on the blood, and re-introduce state-run butchery into Vermont law.
This Kilmartin (yes, his real name) person has actually previously announced that he would introduce such an amendment, only to get cold feet at the last minute. This time around, he obviously thinks that he can ride this Burlington death penalty ruling and get some death back into Vermont statutes. On NPR tonight, he was asked what justification he could offer for the state to assume the right to determine who should live and who should die. His answer? "How would you explain to the victim's family that you did not think that the murderer should pay the 'ultimate price'?" And when asked why Vermont, which voted to abolish the bloody statutes decades ago, should go back to supporting it, the answer: "Well, after 9/11 we live in a different World..." Different indeed. If only the Al Qaida slaughterers could hear this. If this is not a description of their ultimate victory, then I do not know what could be: Murdering more than 3000 Americans on 9/11 has inspired Vermont to pass a law to allow it to kill even more of them.
And you know what? He just might succeed. Yes, he may be one of those trial attorneys-turned-politician who gives attorneys a bad name and revels in feeding off fear, death and misery. Yes, he may be trying to give this homicidal initiative of his some undeserved respectability by asking for a "rational discussion on this valid form of punishment". Yes, he may be bringing red blood to one of tha last vestiges of sanity in the country. Yes, he may be sporting a silver tongue and riding a pale horse. But who is there to stop him, or those like him, or the Hell that follows in their wake?
Where are your leaders, your voices of reason? Where are your Benjamin Franklins, your George Washingtons, your John Adamses?
The answer is simple. They are dead.
And now, the red states' overflowing streams of blood are running upwards. I have already blogged Connecticut's first execution in 45 years, last May. Last week, it was Massachusetts' turn, as their governor suggested to lawmakers that the death penalty be re-instated in the state. The traditionally sane, blue states—those that fought against slavery, started this country's fight for independence, ignited the civil rights movement, led the fight against the Vietnam war, and have for the most part turned their back on the barbaric practice of state-operated slaughter of human beings—are slowly succumbing to the cry for blood.
This time around, it's Vermont. Last week, a jury in Burlington, VT sentenced a man to be exterminated. This act of God-impersonating was based on a federal statute, not Vermont state law, since the state does not have such savagery on the books anymore. But now, Duncan Kilmartin, a sleazy member of the state legislature, seeks to capitalize on the blood, and re-introduce state-run butchery into Vermont law.
This Kilmartin (yes, his real name) person has actually previously announced that he would introduce such an amendment, only to get cold feet at the last minute. This time around, he obviously thinks that he can ride this Burlington death penalty ruling and get some death back into Vermont statutes. On NPR tonight, he was asked what justification he could offer for the state to assume the right to determine who should live and who should die. His answer? "How would you explain to the victim's family that you did not think that the murderer should pay the 'ultimate price'?" And when asked why Vermont, which voted to abolish the bloody statutes decades ago, should go back to supporting it, the answer: "Well, after 9/11 we live in a different World..." Different indeed. If only the Al Qaida slaughterers could hear this. If this is not a description of their ultimate victory, then I do not know what could be: Murdering more than 3000 Americans on 9/11 has inspired Vermont to pass a law to allow it to kill even more of them.
And you know what? He just might succeed. Yes, he may be one of those trial attorneys-turned-politician who gives attorneys a bad name and revels in feeding off fear, death and misery. Yes, he may be trying to give this homicidal initiative of his some undeserved respectability by asking for a "rational discussion on this valid form of punishment". Yes, he may be bringing red blood to one of tha last vestiges of sanity in the country. Yes, he may be sporting a silver tongue and riding a pale horse. But who is there to stop him, or those like him, or the Hell that follows in their wake?
Where are your leaders, your voices of reason? Where are your Benjamin Franklins, your George Washingtons, your John Adamses?
The answer is simple. They are dead.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
News at midnight
In my midnight news gobbling gear, I find the best headline description of the whole Plame affair.
And that from China Daily. Go figure.
晚上好
And that from China Daily. Go figure.
晚上好
Monday, July 18, 2005
Sick, but hopeful
'Tis a sick, sick, sick place indeed, this Earth of ours. But perhaps a recovering one?
Oh, if I only were an optimistic man. How I yearn for that.
Oh, if I only were an optimistic man. How I yearn for that.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Design rulez
Sometimes, you just instinctly know immediately that what you are seeing is not just new but revolutionary. That it is really going to change something, completely. Because it is simply closer to the natural way to do it. The way it was meant to be.
This has to be the coolest thing since the mouse. Seriously.
I mean, not only altering as you hold down a modifier key. No. It's notes, numerals, special symbols, HTML codes, mathematical functions. Colors and Animation!
Lights! Camera! Action!
I want it, I want it, I want it. Now!
This has to be the coolest thing since the mouse. Seriously.
I mean, not only altering as you hold down a modifier key. No. It's notes, numerals, special symbols, HTML codes, mathematical functions. Colors and Animation!
Lights! Camera! Action!
I want it, I want it, I want it. Now!
Friday, July 15, 2005
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Riding in San Fran
Two of the many things that I would like to do, one day, are
It starts out as a commentary on lousy driving habits, with gems like:
- own a motorcycle, and
- live in San Francisco.
It starts out as a commentary on lousy driving habits, with gems like:
Maybe just a general "Erratic & Inattentive!!" signal would work for a variety of situations. A blinking American flag light would be perfect. It would be immediately recognized internationally as a warning icon for out of control, unpredictable and self consumed behavior. Many of the right vehicles already have flags on them, albeit usually tattered to rag status. They just need prominent illumination.and more general comments like:
America's priorities are so retarded. It's like the SuperBowl uproar and general freaking out about seeing Janet's boob pop out, from the same parents who sit their kids in front of movies featuring the Governator shooting peoples' brains out. If you'd rather have your kids know what spattered brains look like than see a woman without a shirt on, you shouldn't be having children. How did you even figure out how to have them?But then it gets really thorough and graphical about the author's experience of a motorcycle accident, in San Fran:
Beyond being able to wash it, my hand and arm still wasn't able to do anything useful. It just hung around pitifully at my side while I watched it atrophy and wrinkle. I'd look at it and try to give it useful things it could do, watch it fail, and then sit it back in place as comfortably as possible and feed it more pain meds. It was like having grandparents move in.Sobering stuff.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Lightning strikes
I love thunders and lightnings.
Maybe because I got so few growing up. On the rare occasion that we get some here, I stay up. Go out into the rain. Or just sit in the window. And watch in awe.
But the thing about these magnificent and beautiful spectacles is that they are actually very dangerous. Practically lethal, actually. They are nowhere as unreal as they appear. If you were to be struck by lightning, it would be devastating. But it can also be crushing to see it happen up close. I mean, seeing lightning strike in the night, somewhere over in the next valley, is only intriguing, And for like five seconds. But to see it strike someone down right in front of you. That would be terrifying. But you don't see that happen. So you think it doesn't.
Domestic violence is something that for many of us is only encountered in fiction; in books or movies. But it is striking all around us. Everyday. Without us even knowing it, most of the time. The victim feels ashamed. The attacker... I don't know what. I can't understand them. And I don't want to.
A dear friend of ours called my wife today. As soon as she heard my wife's voice, she started crying. She loves him. They have been so happy together. They had fought before, mainly over how to raise the kids. But this time, he tried to strangle her. She has deep purple marks on her neck.
She had gone to work this morning, as if nothing had happened. She didn't want to "over-react". But as she was sitting at her work, trying to feed a little piglet (long story), she suddenly started thinking "what if my daughter came to me and told her that her boyfriend had tried to choke her, but they were trying to work it out?"
That's when she called my wife.
We've done all that can be done for now. Before going to bed, my wife gave me a big hug and said "thanks for being normal".
Yeah, right. The standards for being an outstanding male seem to be coming down rapidly. Being kind to your wife, or even just not beating her, will get you an honour badge.
Oh, what a miserably low form of life mankind really and truly is.
Maybe because I got so few growing up. On the rare occasion that we get some here, I stay up. Go out into the rain. Or just sit in the window. And watch in awe.
But the thing about these magnificent and beautiful spectacles is that they are actually very dangerous. Practically lethal, actually. They are nowhere as unreal as they appear. If you were to be struck by lightning, it would be devastating. But it can also be crushing to see it happen up close. I mean, seeing lightning strike in the night, somewhere over in the next valley, is only intriguing, And for like five seconds. But to see it strike someone down right in front of you. That would be terrifying. But you don't see that happen. So you think it doesn't.
Domestic violence is something that for many of us is only encountered in fiction; in books or movies. But it is striking all around us. Everyday. Without us even knowing it, most of the time. The victim feels ashamed. The attacker... I don't know what. I can't understand them. And I don't want to.
A dear friend of ours called my wife today. As soon as she heard my wife's voice, she started crying. She loves him. They have been so happy together. They had fought before, mainly over how to raise the kids. But this time, he tried to strangle her. She has deep purple marks on her neck.
She had gone to work this morning, as if nothing had happened. She didn't want to "over-react". But as she was sitting at her work, trying to feed a little piglet (long story), she suddenly started thinking "what if my daughter came to me and told her that her boyfriend had tried to choke her, but they were trying to work it out?"
That's when she called my wife.
We've done all that can be done for now. Before going to bed, my wife gave me a big hug and said "thanks for being normal".
Yeah, right. The standards for being an outstanding male seem to be coming down rapidly. Being kind to your wife, or even just not beating her, will get you an honour badge.
Oh, what a miserably low form of life mankind really and truly is.
Saturday, July 9, 2005
The bike ride
So I did it. Again. Well, technically for the third time. And it all reminded me of Aristotle, somehow.
Courage, in modern time, involves facing something that makes you tremble, and overcoming that fear. To achieve despite the fear. The greater the threshold of intimidation, the greater the resulting hero.
Aristotle would not have been amused.
He maintained that true heroism meant being absolutely unfazed, no internal conflicts or overcoming latent angst, while doing the deed. So for the hero, it really isn't the effort, because it is in that sense effortless. His heros just are heros, they don't swallow their apprehensions and become heros.
You see, I was feeling more than a little apprehensive before the race. I am 15 pounds heavier than last year. I have biked less than 10% of the distance I had covered the same time last year. My wasted knees and once-broken ankle have been acting up on me lately. The list goes on. I was worried.
And then I woke up. It was not just raining. It was literally pouring. One of those I-can't-belive-it's-really-raining-this-hard downpours. The heat had dropped below 60, for the first time in weeks.
But I stubbornly talked myself through it. Got up at 5:30. Stretched. Ate my last carbo-load. Put on the cold biking outfit. Stretched some more, while I waited for my biking partners. Followed them up to the starting place. Took a deep breath before exiting the car. And became drenched just while taking the bike out of the trunk. I know that I will laugh at this claim come wintertime, but it was cold. There were many bewildered bikers there, standing in the rain. Quite a few stayed in their cars, others returned to them. But my partners calmly followed my lead and took out their bikes. And then, quietely and without fuzz, it came time to head out.
One hundred miles, countless powerbars and bottles of gatorade, and more than eight hours later, we got back up that hill. I was euphoric. My endorphines had kicked in hard around mile 85, and after that I was high on life. Utterly. My partners where, characteristically, calmer about the whole affair.
But we did it. Despite everything. And it actually felt good. Good? Hell, it felt great! We stole the time. Just for one day.
And we were heroes.
Just for one day.
Courage, in modern time, involves facing something that makes you tremble, and overcoming that fear. To achieve despite the fear. The greater the threshold of intimidation, the greater the resulting hero.
Aristotle would not have been amused.
He maintained that true heroism meant being absolutely unfazed, no internal conflicts or overcoming latent angst, while doing the deed. So for the hero, it really isn't the effort, because it is in that sense effortless. His heros just are heros, they don't swallow their apprehensions and become heros.
You see, I was feeling more than a little apprehensive before the race. I am 15 pounds heavier than last year. I have biked less than 10% of the distance I had covered the same time last year. My wasted knees and once-broken ankle have been acting up on me lately. The list goes on. I was worried.
And then I woke up. It was not just raining. It was literally pouring. One of those I-can't-belive-it's-really-raining-this-hard downpours. The heat had dropped below 60, for the first time in weeks.
But I stubbornly talked myself through it. Got up at 5:30. Stretched. Ate my last carbo-load. Put on the cold biking outfit. Stretched some more, while I waited for my biking partners. Followed them up to the starting place. Took a deep breath before exiting the car. And became drenched just while taking the bike out of the trunk. I know that I will laugh at this claim come wintertime, but it was cold. There were many bewildered bikers there, standing in the rain. Quite a few stayed in their cars, others returned to them. But my partners calmly followed my lead and took out their bikes. And then, quietely and without fuzz, it came time to head out.
One hundred miles, countless powerbars and bottles of gatorade, and more than eight hours later, we got back up that hill. I was euphoric. My endorphines had kicked in hard around mile 85, and after that I was high on life. Utterly. My partners where, characteristically, calmer about the whole affair.
But we did it. Despite everything. And it actually felt good. Good? Hell, it felt great! We stole the time. Just for one day.
And we were heroes.
Just for one day.
Monday, July 4, 2005
Code, not text
Text has lost its magic to me.
I probably finally realized this when I began reading a blog started recently by a dear friend of mine. Although he is a magical photographer, it turns out he is also a really good wordsmith, something which he almost stereotypically has consistently denied, often vehemently. As I read his beautiful and captivating prose, I realized that it did not—and could not—move me in the magical sense that his photographs can, and do. And what is more, no other text can, anymore. Over the years, I have become somewhat numb to the medium. Like a professional musician loses the awe he has for music, and moves into it. Or a seaman stops seeing the wonder in the ocean, leaving him with nothing but a workplace. Or perhaps the best analogy, though crass and even sensationalist, is the prostitute who has been stripped of any shred of mystique when it comes to the act of making love.
I am a text whore.
My work calls for my constant manipulation of words into text. Text for a specific purpose. In several different languages, of which English is neither my first nor second (as if that were not obvious). I need to achieve a particular level of precision in my work, but I am also more often than not forced to also put a slant on what I write. To nudge the content. To represent a view. To advocate. To paint in colors that I did not pick, but which have been handed to me. So you can see how while I am still able to respect fancy footwork of the pen, when I see it, I have also lost the ability to lose myself in it. 'Cool trick' is as far as I can be moved these days.
What still has not lost its sparkle to me though, is another kind of word use: Code. That relentless, unassuming, unbiased, clean, ugly, beautiful, virgin expression of pure logic in words. It beckons me, not only on an intellectual level, as a source of demanding puzzles or elaborate mathematical constructs, but on a much more fundamental level of innocence. Where there can be no agenda, except to convey a train of thought which can be carried and executed not only by the corrupt and conniving minds of our degenerate mortal selves, but also by the brutally ratiocinative processor of the modern-day computer.
So while I should be slaving away at my day-job manipulations, I instead spend my nights admiring things like these.
Oh, if I were but an unsullied geek.
I probably finally realized this when I began reading a blog started recently by a dear friend of mine. Although he is a magical photographer, it turns out he is also a really good wordsmith, something which he almost stereotypically has consistently denied, often vehemently. As I read his beautiful and captivating prose, I realized that it did not—and could not—move me in the magical sense that his photographs can, and do. And what is more, no other text can, anymore. Over the years, I have become somewhat numb to the medium. Like a professional musician loses the awe he has for music, and moves into it. Or a seaman stops seeing the wonder in the ocean, leaving him with nothing but a workplace. Or perhaps the best analogy, though crass and even sensationalist, is the prostitute who has been stripped of any shred of mystique when it comes to the act of making love.
I am a text whore.
My work calls for my constant manipulation of words into text. Text for a specific purpose. In several different languages, of which English is neither my first nor second (as if that were not obvious). I need to achieve a particular level of precision in my work, but I am also more often than not forced to also put a slant on what I write. To nudge the content. To represent a view. To advocate. To paint in colors that I did not pick, but which have been handed to me. So you can see how while I am still able to respect fancy footwork of the pen, when I see it, I have also lost the ability to lose myself in it. 'Cool trick' is as far as I can be moved these days.
What still has not lost its sparkle to me though, is another kind of word use: Code. That relentless, unassuming, unbiased, clean, ugly, beautiful, virgin expression of pure logic in words. It beckons me, not only on an intellectual level, as a source of demanding puzzles or elaborate mathematical constructs, but on a much more fundamental level of innocence. Where there can be no agenda, except to convey a train of thought which can be carried and executed not only by the corrupt and conniving minds of our degenerate mortal selves, but also by the brutally ratiocinative processor of the modern-day computer.
So while I should be slaving away at my day-job manipulations, I instead spend my nights admiring things like these.
Oh, if I were but an unsullied geek.
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