Do You Remember?

Can't possibly tell you, explain to you how much this song means in my life. It is remembrace, not only as it is from one of my coolest, trademark times, because the lyrics are not your typical sugar-coated all-lovey-dovey "love is forever" kind, but they carry despair, hurt, break.

Slow cadence, a touch of upbeat to feed the anger underneath the melancholy of hurt. I cling to it as I clung back then, when the Internet was hardly rearing its head from the dark depths of the tube screens. A place to touch down in long nights that started at 11 pm in short wool lolita dresses, thick shoes and black make up, blue lips and rubber silver tees. Hair dyed raven black, a diet of coke and a small bread bun per day. A life around Friday nights at the disco, plunged in a world of mystic figures, lazer green light tunnels that enticed death and afterlife while in here, captured in a solitary cell of music around hundreds of bodies abandoned in the throws of electronic music. Bum-bum-bum.

This was a place of touchdown. A place of chill. A place of meditation.

The arm of someone around your waist, the lips of a shy someone else on your neck. Words in different languages - Polish, Russian, Arabic, English - whispering timid, hushed "I love you"-s. Courage and boldness breath in from the vanilla scented air. Smiles and kisses that taste just the same. A secluded place of confidence where friendship translates every move you make into a pledge of something deep, something unique, something never seen. It's friendship far beyond friendship, sealed by lips in a deep kiss. A place where there's no jealousy, where there's understanding. Long nights of talks with a shared can of beer.

Down from the heights of Madonna's Secret and Bedtime Stories, from Björk's Army and Post, Scatman Joe's Scatman World, Red Nexx' Cotton Eyed Joe. The world spins and we spin with it. Dormant during the week, secretly alive at night in a study room or whispering bunked up in bed.

It is a world that won't come back, yet won't leave us either.

Green, Green, Green

After Hyne knows how much time, yesterday Shimmy Gin and I finally met. In contrast with his bipolar girlfriend, though we kept postponing our meeting, not even once we questioned the fact that we would meet. And we did. Shimmy was a bit late, as usual, since the traffic at Escazú is completely impredictable, even to Paul The Polip, and me... well, I was kinda late too - not all that much, but late still - for kinda the same reason: the traffic at Sabana is the most perfect random system ever concocted between men, nature and asphalt.

To my doom-delight, after not going to "home" for Hyne knows how long, I was subreptitiously ambushed by no other than my beloved Benetton store. I guess I keep falling and falling for it. It is simply inevitable. The Sun rises at East, sets at West and I will always be seduced by Benetton. Some things are simply the way they are. It was the haphazardly breath of the new collection setting in, still awkwardly pushing out the past one, with racks of green skattered, sensual, suggestive with soft cotton spilling in messed up piles, shades hanging here and there more in a hectic mix of textures, than a progressive order of any sort. It wasn't a store, it was a closet. The sweater you took off yesterday in a hamper of tops and blouses you didn't care folding, just fisted into the shelve, pushed it deep and hoped it won't fall on your head when you open the closet door again.

I was late, as I said earlier, and I still wanted to check Argento, as I am looking for a new silver ring to take the place of my Nibelung ring, and I really had to hurry, but hey, if Shimmy where there he would give me a call, right? Besides, I wasn't going to buy anything. I was just... going to check out the merchandise. That's quick and there's nothing wrong with it. And these are the lies us addicts tell to ourselves. I gave myself rules: I would only check out the green stuff. Just the green. Oh, I kept that one. I thought of the office, and so discarded a lot of informal, thin, tiny tops and skirts that wouldn't make the cut in a serious environment. Some made me laugh, truth to be told, and sneering I noticed the Sisley label on it. And some people consider Sisley the "elegant brand". Suuuuure. Collection after collection, Sisley constantly strikes me as the "dumby, trashy little sister of Benetton". Uneven hems, large, sparkly prints, lots of beads and rhinestone and such. Not me for sure. I was reaching the end of the rack and I was delighted: there was not a single piece for me in the rack, so I could turn around, walk out and keep the virtue of my card.

You never underestimate the power of the Store.

At the very end there was this awesome wool dress, knee long, perfect cut and amazing as a top layer over pants, worn as a sweater. And it was on a mindblowing discount. Okay, I would try it on, and perhaps, perhaps it wouldn't fit. Yes, only that by the dressers there was this oncoming, new collection green dress that was just too perfect to leave. No price on it, so it could be a very, very unpleasant surprise. I had to try it on. Why do I do that? It's Benetton! Of course it's gonna look awesome! You never, never try on a Benetton piece if you are trying to quit. Everytime it's gonna look like a banking bailout on you: so good it's immoral and should be ilegal as well. Trying it on IS buying it. And the worse thing? I actually stayed within my rules: only green. So I set another rule for myself: IF the dress goes over $120, I won't buy it. Mentally I tried to push up the limit up to $200 - $250. The pro argument convincingly said that the card was squicky clean, and the amount could easily be covered with the next paycheck, but still, I nailed my resolution to $120. It was far less. Tricked again.

So I did the old move and slid the gold, and walked out with a bagful of luscious, fresh green.

Thanks Hyne there wasn't a single decent ring at Argento.

Shimmy and I met at our favorite crèpe place, and chatted away. Got updated on gossip both on old acquintances as well as the Twitter entourage and latest activities and followed twitters. We dissected people and personalities, found an application to the deductions I've pulled from my musings on Nin and again made an effort to understand the collective and individual mind of the surroundings in which we have been plunged. Some book flirting then next door, coyly looking at covers and spines, letting ourselves be seduced by backcover words, let the flirt unroll and then hold or decline. We submitted to the clutching dependance of the printed word and grabbed our poison from the shelves. My new additions includes a novel by Elizabeth Kostova, author of "The Historian", and an "Ars Magica" of sorts that caught my attention. Books on witches always get to me. Oh goodie, even more books to carry over seas.

This time around, Shimmy was quite disperse, intensely enthralled by the potential #twittertour developing under our feet, at the lower level in Hooligans, were he identified at least three twitters he admires. His rushing, his running, my waiting. But I had my Benetton and a new book to read.

Thin Shimmy is still as engaging as Thick Shimmy, but he is far less focused.

Oh well, until next time.

Jon Bon Jovi

Jon Bon Jovi will be touring here in Costa Rica on September 26th, and guess who is going? Yep, me, myself and I! Oh dear heavens! Jon Bon Jovi! :-) I knew first of his concert from my friend Alix, and then was when I decided that I'm not letting this one out, I am going with her, and so I will! Hope the ticket won't be insanely expensive, and thanks Hyne it will be on the weekend, so I won't have to rush to make the line... though going back to the office after a concert... that will be something I'm not sure I want to witness. Still... Oh dear Patrick, Jon Bon Jovi!!!

Lawrence as Nin's June Before June

The pages fly under my fingers, before my eyes and the end is coming closer. The initial awe and strict interpretation of Lawrence slowly vanishes and Nin, by the end of the study, seeks quite vehemently to defend the object of her study even when his flaws escape between her fingers. As reader, as someone who hasn't yet experienced Lawrence first hand, inspite of the richness in well selected quotes, he reveals in her words as a wobbly character, prone to mood swings and whimsy outbursts. A deep immaturity unveils, further sinking in, reinforcing previous ideas one forms of him.

As the book nears its end, and Nin tangles in the throws of Lawrence's sea of moods, where the reafirmation and revalidation of self appear constantly in different characters marked by the lack of strenght, or hold down to a life guiding principle. For Nin it is the trademark of the poet, the seal of the creator, all of them beautiful words and inspired excuses for what seems to me the escape of a man who can't accept himself, no matter how hard, so vehemently he tries to do so. And so, wrapping in the cloak of self-proclaimed individuality all oddness is excused, purposeful ignorance of the social reaction is pulled up, to hide behind such a screen the wails and tantrums of a self tormented both by its very unspeakable nature and the condemning of the society upon it, whether happening or the feared reaction if the truth where to be known. Nin runs up front, fending her submissive femininity in the fashion proper of old chavalry stories, where the hurt brave's life is spared thanks to the sacrifice and humble pleading of the fair maiden.

Nin elevates him high to the sphere of worldly gods, the ultimate creators, the purest of men, those whose fertile, unique skills match those of the gods, and therefore shall always be above normal men. Her worship is absolute, and thus she lays her words at his feet, serve him humbly explaining to the word how his flaws are divine features, his immaturity the needed brand of those infused with the power of artistic creation. In the non-understanding of his throws lies the key to his genius, in the moves that betray ridicule to the normal man, hides the greatness of his outworldly, avant-guard, gifted vision.

Having read her journal before, suddenly I face the same defending line she took with June Miller. In the blindness of the flaws, she insists in a distorted vision of the person beyond the person, where the blatant and factual weakness of nature superposes in the surrealist plane the unveiling of such high features, they must, by rule be incomprehensive to the average of men, and seem, by the power of simplicity, envy, obscurity of mind or any other cloaking device, a wicked, abhorrent, unbearable flaw. As with June, the unstability of a self that refuses to see itself in the eye, that runs around its own core, is worshiped as a sign of deep artistic inclination.

Anais Nin was an abused child, beaten and submitted to emotional harm. It is possible her mind had soaked in the idea that there is something intrinsically unspeakable about herself, something horrid that should be kept at bay by punishment. This could have turned her away from herself. Uncomfortable by being forced to live in another skin, an imposed or self imposed one, but deeply afraid of assuming her own. In her words, both June and Lawrence seem to share this feature. Nor June, nor Lawrence settle with themselves, and run around, awkward and playing roles, façades like plaster masks that do not fit theirselves. And uncomfortable in the not fitting shoe they are forced into, they turn against others, torment those they can torment, play the victim when the situation gets out of control and blame the world for everything, from the rain to the war to their headache.

This book reveals Nin pathological, reveals her needs, and large chunks of herself, as also things that are not intended to be revealed as pety and obscure get revealed of the object of her abject worship.

At the same time her style continuous flowing and perfect, bigger than herself, absorbent, enveloping, grasping. Nin becomes the tool of her gift, the peripheral attachment of her style, the devise to move pen over paper, digits over keys, to get the message through. Yes, she is broken, yes, she is flawed, but still, the things her eyes see, even past her hability to process and reinterpret into her own world are astonishing.

A Stormy Saturday

Longer weekends are always better weekends. They give you more time to rest, and sometimes more time to rest is more time to think.

After getting a break yesterday, and running my banking errands in the afternoon, my day today has been freed quite some, which I used up in resting and doing blissful nothing, as one should. Still have some programs, though, but some of them seem quite threatened by the looming rain. Oh yes, when rain comes with vengeance these days, and a big umbrella, rubber boots and an attitude are no longer good, you really consider the options offered by the confort of your own home, particularly those that do not require electricity. Yes, another fact aboutt this particularly vicious rainy season is that power is flickering, the cuts are daily and the constant on-off of it can fry your electrical equipment, which means that if you value your computer or your flat screen TV, you better unplug it. ^_^ Just another reason to love and adore lap tops.

Grass is growing in the backyard like bad habits: fast and strong. Hyperion spends most of his time out somewhere, far away from the Bad Gray Cat that has been bullying him for ages, and the new plants my mother planted in the place of the old ones (it seems I spent some 3 weeks watering weed, which pisses me off) are blooming an doing there thing.

Yesterday I saw some of this movie.,Secret Garden" or some crap like that. Didn't watch much of it, as I can't care less about the subject, but it did intriged me what could anyone see and find so delightful in a garden. It's just a bunch of plants. The "joy of finding new flowers every day" is something completely unphantomable for me, as, really, I don't even notice the flowers in general, I mean, sure, I find delight in pretty flowers here and there, and some arragements here and there, but the idea of taking care of a gardeb, and arrange it with various trees and stuff... that's so useless an activity in my eyes. Oddly I do like flowers, but either the seldom flower that grows where no one can see it, or the ones killed, cut and put in a vase. Maybe flowers and gardens are something you must have inside, for I lack of their appreciation entirely.

But gardens are no longer my concern, and the minds and twist and things fo the brain are not something I wish to dwell on right now. Weekend is for rest, for relax, for a great facial in the comfort of your home, for pampering, movies and fun. So now I'll go an have some for myself.

And On These Fridays of Ours

And so a work week has gone by, this one for my colleagues at the Babel Tower and mine, cut shorter thanks to a blown up breaker, which killed the power in the whole builiding, taking away also the air conditioning - oh, sorry, the Climatization System - and the water, which means not only no water to drink, but no use of the facilities. Things came out quite interestingly, as the power was gone for a while, we went to have lunch outside the builing, as evidently the diner wasn't working, when we were called through our friends and coworkers to return to the building to get our stuff because it had to be evacuated. Holy Cow! How come? No questions asked, just run because the emergency lights at the emergency stairs holds up two more hours. No it didn't.

It was Primal Chaos in there. Lights out, doors at every floor open to let in air and light, and people using the same staircases to go up and down, hardly any order to use them, as people met in both ways and had to dance to get through. Brigadist here and there, but not everywhere to keep the flow of people moving and controlled, no one there to aid anyone getting sick.

It was also suddenly made clear how needed a decent air circulating system is needed, as with the doors open at every floor it wasn't so hard to climb the stairs up to the 8th floor without stopping (usually I have to stop already at the 2nd, 3rd floor and then every other floor).

Get to your cubicle, put things away, grab your stuff and hit it home. Down again in the darkness.

There was no prior tests, no simulations, no suficient information, and it showed. Sad thing was that the emergency system was put out far quicker than expected, and there was no order in the evacuation. What would have happened if there were fire or an earthquake? Oh, because the jams at the exit of the parking lot - the only exit - were like those experienced at the end of the day.

Good thing was, though, that I've got to have lunch with one of the Andys, which I like, because our Andys are awesome, and we went to our beloved Italian restaurant, and had a great chat. Good thing was that the work day was far shorter. Good thing was that I've got to make all my errands Today, so tomorrow I can relax and have fun, perhaps only go to the Post Office to drop my letters, if I finish them Today.

Tomorrow I plan as well to go to visit Lau, who came back from the States, where she spent almost two weeks with our dear Roo. Hopefully i'll drop by Alix' place too, have some chat, and then ... who knows? It's weekend. The weekend came early this week!

Oh, on Sunday I hope to meet with my beloved Shimmy Gin, and have a great conversation on sooooo many things! I also want to start again my search for a perfect silver ring, my Nibelung Ring. Oh yes, of course, and I'm planning to go to Hungary to visit at the end of the year... as usual.

On These Mondays of Ours

It is Monday, and this is me another day at the office. Aside from a mild case of Addiction-to-Bejeweled, or Match-three-Jewels, this is another of the many Monday's of my life. Back at work after two days spent in blissful "doing nothing"-ness, which is the point of weekends. I rented seven videos at the local blockbuster, and I still wondered when I did, when on Earth will I see them all? Well, this weekend I saw four of them: three on Saturday and one on Sunday. Yeah, Sunday was full with other stuff to do, so I spent pretty much all Sunday watching this 90-minute movie called "Brooklyn's Best". Actually it was quite a movie, if I may say so. Watched "Legion", by the way, and I wish I didn't. That movie is a disaster! Not as bad as Twilight, though, but it is like a bad remastering of Terminator, the first one, but instead of machines, you fight angels. All down to the baby, the bandana on the head and the crappy car, rolling down the desert.

Then again, I picked Legion as one of the "free movies" I could pick, and given the fact that the blockbuster is short on movies (I think it's either filing chapter eleven soon, or the owner just plain want's to liquidate the joint), so there wasn't much to watc of much to lose.

I'm still enraptured by Asa Larsson's novel, I can't deny that, but also get Nin wrap her word arms around me with ther dissection of D.H.Lawrence, delighting me with quotes such as "(...) great religious images are only images of our own experiences, or of our own state of mind and soul" (Nin, 1932).

There is a subtle note in the chaptering of the book, in the rhythm and sequence of topics, in the treatment of them, as Nin places the religious topic right after the sexual one, and as the topic of sex still leaks and inflamates with sickly intention inside religion, in Lawrence, pulling the very resurrection of Christ  - in full flesh - with other carnal topics as if these were the real interpretation, Lawrence's interpretation of this resurrection. It calls upon polygamy, orgies, debauchery and a conception of God and Religion rooted on the penis. Men as the vessels of God and women as unable to get in touch with God if it is not through men. Okay, Lawrence's god is a dick.

There is still book to read in here, more to fall in love with, and Nin never fails to make me fall in love. Then... well, then I'll watch movies and pick another book, from the many patiently waiting for me in my shelves.

A Short Flirt With Nin and Lawrence

After finishing Larsson's book, I picked up Anais Nin's "D.H.Lawrence: An Unprofessional Study". This is a book I bought quite some time ago, but haven't gotten around to read it.  A reprinting of this interesting analysis of Lawrence's writing, a dissection of his characters and the style of writing itself, that says so much of our dear Anais Nin. From the book the Introduction by Harry T. Moore stands like a stain to the work, as Mr. Moore seems more concerned with promoting his own books on Lawrence and showing off his knowledge of the late author than actually giving honest word about the book he should be presenting. Isn't some sort of editor out there stopping this atrocities from happening?

The book itself is quite short, with a distinctive touch of Nin, who takes this objetc of study and by delving into it, giving us an interpretation of it, showcases her own amazing style, her human, biting, pumping style, swelling with feelings, growing out of desires, nurturing on passion. The very style we shall exterience later on in her magnificent diaries, which I adore and hope to collect all.

There is something about Nin, something about her writing, the very intimate way in which she expresses herself, that makes you want to have her diaries at hand and search in the recorded days and months during her writing of the book, those feelings, thoughts and emotions that fueled her words, later put out in a more public way.

For me, House of Incest would have been a completely different book if I hadn't read before the journal, and so with Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller.

In "D.H. Lawrence" Nin sings her praises to Lawrence, but also takes her time to point out her vision, her interpretation hopping from topic to topic fending off tabu with almost scientific precision. Like with her diaries, after her Unprofessional Study, far less pretentious and bile driven than others more professional, one gets the distinct feeling of standing before a milestone. There is a reading of Lawrence before Nin and after Nin.

It is almost as if her surrealist prism could break the world into glass tiles, and by looking at it again, through her caleidoscopic eye, the world would rearrange into more exotic, shifting meanings, all of the marvelous and artistic. Chaos finds a system in her, with the "system of mobility", and weakness becomes "layered emotional experience". There were others see failure she sees the amazing avant garde vision that speaks to many senses at the same time. Language gets deconstructed from the meaning to leave it up to the primal blocks: just the sounds. It speaks not to the mind, but to the gut, convinces not the brain, but the plexus.

Apology of Lawrence or not, in the end what bewitches us is her writing, her mind and the fabulous word she fingerpaints for us with Lawrence's themes and words.

Solstrom - Sun Storm - A Romain Noir with Clutch

Again another day from blogging from gmail. My friend Dragonfly can't blog today because so far she hasn't activated this feature, as so far she hadn't had the need for it. I urged her to do so as she gets home (then will urge her to hook it on the Buzz, so I still can get it and read it), so our daily share of her mind keeps coming our way.

Today's topic, however, is not another chapter of nuisance about trivial, annoying matters regarding the office, but a book I just finished yesterday, and which I can't but love. I do. I love it, and love it greatly. Said book is "Sun Storm" by Asa Larsson.

Ms. Larsson is a Swedish writer, born in 1966, who grew up in Kiruna, the stage of this fantastic story of hers, and studied law, as well as practiced it, which gives autenticity to her legal speech in her novels, and which she comfortably keeps rooted on the ground of "as less as possible, just as needed", which makes her writing fairly dinamic without lapsing into long, boring descriptions of legal procedures, which other writers with also a background in law can't seem to detach from.

Her style in this novel has a strike of modern-styles-clashing at the begining, with a Bernard Webber like first micro-chapter, with death welcoming us in the face. It seems like a book started from the end, and rolling out from there on. Visual in her descriptions, touching other senses without truly grasping them at the begining, shocking us, confusing us for starters, only to plunge us after into an annoying chapter of Sex and the City (SATC for the fans) in the frame of modern literature, which is basically a hug back of empty nonsense chaptered in small bites for the modern reader with the attention span of an ADD first grader, and all the profiles of characters up front. It does become disappointing for the more "traditional reader" to have the characters dished out at once, with no real reason then as to why should you know this or than in this particular moment of the story. Personal Advise? Work it into the story. Then, if you don't need it, don't write it. Like, do you really need to know the brand, color and fabric of a character's skirt? I mean, if she's going to the office, I can safely assume that she is dressed. If you want to point out that her clothes are expensive because she has such a great income, why don't just say so? Like, "she was dressed in one of her many Armany suits" or "unlike when she lived in Kiruna, now she wore only designer clothes, not like she even paid attention to that".

After the first chapters of awkwardness and searching of the true style are past, suddenly a marvelous style, her style reveals. Cut to the chase, simple yet visual on the descriptions, tapping on the senses without seeking the Nin-like seducing and engaging, but efectively getting quick and sure, as if senses were keys on her keyboard. The sneer to some of the characters is evident and delightful, just as her matter-of-fact, crude description of things most authors rather not talk about. Have to love officer Anna-Maria Mella, pregnant cop who has to pee constantly, and she doesn't hide it. Yeah, I'm interrogating you, but now I gara stop because I gara hit the can. Life is not perfect and the little princesses are annoying and disliked, and it's right there. Her style, clean cut and honest, delves into the human cesspool of emotions. Hatred that nurtures inside, revenge that's enjoyed greatly, annoyance that's expressed in the paper, without a regret of what the Big Reader will think of it. In her pages you get that distinct feeling that Ms. Larsson wrote this for herself, not for the big audience, and that makes it far richer. It is not a people pleasing work, with - oh well - there must be a hot guy and a hut girl and a hot sex scene because that's what people likes to read, no. Ms. Larsson made it clear she is the one she wants to please, and if you like it, good, if not, there are plenty of books in the bookstore, you can always pick something else. Amazing.

In her narrative, she also keeps on a rollercoaster as she plays her chips to sell you that this is the culprit, then sell you another story, and give you that motive, then makes it clear who is the culprit, and you feel cheated for having that revealed before the end, when BAM! Yeah baby, Momma still had a card under her sleeve. Do not pretend to see her story through. Do not think you know. She's that grand.

The book flows basically on three branches that weave together. There's Rebecka Martinsson's branch. She's the lawyer, the "expensive suit" and one of our "solve the mistery" girls. Her entourage starts including the law firm she works in, but then moves as a basically unattached piece in the Kiruna scene, with connections to her old friends, many of which are not happy to see her. Quite a change from the Disney-heroine, surrounded by loving people eager to help her. Rebecka has trouble, in the way she was written, finding her role in the story. Shall she leave it all, shall she dig into it? She ends up going where she's lead and finding out half of the story. Another branch, and the finder of the other half is in the always amazing Anna-Maria Mella, the pregnant cop with a crude tong and a hard attitude. She doesn't even blink constantly radiating that "look, I have three kids, a husband and I'm very pregnant. You wanna mess with me, think hard because I have no patience left for your stunts"-vibe. You don't wanna find yourself on the wrong end of this small, unattractive lady. Her character is strong and far more defined than Rebecka's which makes it clear that Mr. Larsson did intend to make Rebecka a more pliable character, infusing her with a much weaker sense of self on purpose. Why? Hnnn...

The third branch is the Kiruna branch, which includes, basically, the congregation of Kiruna, mixing the victim and then the whole congregation, in an amazing tile work kaleidoscope of fairly homogenic elements that move guided by a distinctive head, exhuding the feeling of a damned town spelled into a quite yet dangerous dormant zombie. The multiple characters, small and big, some a bit more friendly, some a bit more bitter, some quite plain and silent, create a character that looms over the story, shadowed. ghosted, suggested, implied above and under the facts and circumstances, in the escense of the motivations: Kiruna. City and population seem to breathe and beat, wax and wane separating into pieces, breaking into geography and habitants only to mesh back again into a single identity. Kiruna is alive, but then is inanimated, all at once, both in subsequent moments, mingled and yuxtaposed, yet always superposed to the text, present even if not directly issued.

The interaction is fluent and realistic, detaching from the common authors' assuption that the characters have all the time in the world to wrap around the plot. (Kind of like the SATC girls, who, inspite of being professionals, have an incredible amount of time to go out, have affairs and stay at home heartbroken... or fly to Mexico on a whim.) Here there are realistic time limitations and realistic stretching of minutes and spare time to get things done. Finally a story that does sounds like life.

Ms. Larsson sets her foot firmly in her style, and even allows herself to make the reader jump in his or her seat, plays a practical joke and laughs at you in your face, reminding you once again, that this is for her own pleasure, you are just audience to her private show.

The book caught me and now I'm a word-junkie, desperate to get my next fix, roaming bookstore after bookstore for the next one and the next one.

This is a book I wholeheartedly recommend to everyone.

Ingrid

The news about the super-famous ex-hostage, Ingrid Betancourt can't but raise eyebrows across the globe. French-Colombian politician, presidential candidate of said country, she gained notoriety due to her kidnapping by the FARC in February 23rd, 2002. The big boom regarding her - and her hostage mates, as they seem to be swallowed by oblivion - came, however in 2008, after 6 years in the hands of the FARC, when her case became much more present in the media. Foreing Governments, including the French Government, lead by Nicholas Sarkozy, moved the chips and pressed all the needed buttons to work on her release.

The press, including fashion magazines were filled with heart clutching pictures of the thin, pale, hopeless woman of long hair sitting sadly on a bench in the middle of nowhere. Such pictures, and the detail of her story fed the emotions of millions, billions of people who cheered along with friends and family when, in July 2nd, 2008 she was finally released. Tears of joy and emotion swelled in many eyes looking at the fragile woman in combat clothes descending from the plain, reuniting with her family after six years of horror.

Little after stories sipped to the media from her hostage mates, telling disappointing stories about her, how she was selfish, prone to temper tantrums, seeking constantly her own benefit, even against the well being (however small) of her mates. It was said that she kept a radio hidden from her mates, which  she used to  hear the news and know what was going on. She even refused to later share the news with the other hostages. A note even mentioned that she often used crying to get away with her will, even with their captors. The stories were small and were soon swapped under the rug as meaningless, mean stories of mates less notorious that wished to either take a shine in the spotlight or ruin hers.

Two years passed after that, and her name faded into oblivion. Whatever her life was, it was more private, more hers, more of her family's and her friends', or so we thought. Many, perhaps imagined her seeking therapy, working hard to recuperate from the trauma and have a normal life again. Either way, her name was lost from the collective memory as other things took the stage, such as Barack Obama, Neda, Lady Gaga, Lindsay Lohan, Angela Merkel, Bernard Madoff and others of the size. 

This, well, until recently, when the news hit us all in the face, that she was sueing the Colombian Government  for $6.8 million over her kidnap. The news hit us like a slap out of nowhere. It was like looking a blown up case of some trivial trial, where someone sues the doctors who took care of him or her after an accident for not doing it sooner. It was the Colombian Government, that worked organized the operation to rescue her. Brave men and women risked their lives to release her and her hostage mates, and her response, now that her name is not in the papers, is to sue them?

Like many said, "was, perhaps the Colombian Government the one that kidnapped her?" "why don't she go sue the FARC?".

I was petrified by the shamelessness she showed with this demand. I was angried, however, with today's news where she ads insult to injury by crying on public, say that she would never want to harm Colombia, it was never her intention to attack those who had released her, and that she would not pursue the matter "if the negotiations outside the courthouse fail". Well, what would she say if the Colombian Government decided to charge her for all the expenses of her releasing? If the FARC decided to charge her with the bill of six years of feeding her and giving her the whatever shelter she got?

Her image of fragile woman shattered for ever in the eyes of the world, and now her tears are seen with disgust. They no longer seem honest, but part of her spoiled brat act. She cries to get out of trouble. How awfully we feel after supporting her and praying for her. Is she also going to sue all the Governments that intervened in her release because they didn't do it quicker?

This is how you fall from grace, this is how you waste a tremendous media capital you could have invested in something human, something good that would have given back to the world that worried for her. I guess, like they say here "árbol que nace torcido nunca su tronco endereza".

Violence Now?

Sunday papers include segments that retakes, and reprocesses topics of the week or the month that keep hanging in the air, and dedicates to them a bit more than the 500 words they usually get, arranged around big pictures and 50 word notes-in-a-box. One of the topics, not much developed, I found was this about the violence among children and teens, which pushes bullying to extremes never known before all the way to shooting classmates, teachers and principals.

An American expert was consulted, evident from the tone of the interviewer, for magical tips and solutions to fix the problem and enforce the preconceived ideas that lurked that dark, stupid head. Instead nothing concrete, nothing really important came out of it. It did made me think though, again starting from my theory of the self, about the root of this "newly developed violence in kids".

These kids... what's different in them or around them, from what it was for us? Back in our youth we were afraid of teachers and principals, played out in the street, watched TV... Saying that Today's kids live surrounded by more violence is not exact, as we grew up hearing about wars, guerrillas, Cold War and so on. History books were filled with presidents and heroes executed, kings and rebels beheaded and subjected to horrible tortures and deaths. As today's kids can learn how to make a molotov cocktail from youtube, we also had our sources to learn how to harm and kill, not to mention the classic, basic methods, of simply setting something on fire or beat it.

We got depressed, we did stupid things, so what changed? We had bullies in our time too, and as a matter of fact, recorded in novels, we also know that in prior generations kids used to play war by throwing stones at each other. So, if today's youth is exposed to as much violence as we were, what has made them react the way they do?

One thing that is different is the attention these kids get. Though the relationship and the attention that ultimately matters is the one that happens with the self, it is important to notice that children and teens have no firm definition and relationship developed with themselves, and though they need to learn it, as the notion of knowing and loving oneself do not come embedded with everyone. From birth to adulthood, children and teens learn the ways of life and humanity from their surroundings, sucking up everything like sponges. By adulthood the sponge is saturated, and thus it works with what it has.

Today's kids are often surrounded by adults that do not pay attention to them, teachers that do the job for the paycheck, not for vocation, who are eager to pass on the kids as soon as they can, and parents that consider them something short from an annoying expense to be controlled. Today's adults, and you can see that everywhere, even at the office, are addicted at placing guilt, pointing fingers, and are allergic at taking responsability. Today's adults fuck, have a kid and can't wait to put them on someone else's tab, but this tab isn't picked up by the teachers or principals or orientating/school shrinks because they are not there to raise the kids.

Parents "have so much to do" and are "so busy", and "life is not easy now and they have to work so hard" and all that crap, while teachers "are not the parents of the kid and they have to take care of other 200 kids as well". And so kids are suspended between the "grade giver" and the "food and shelter provider", but nowhere else to go. So they grow up on the TV and the Internet, finding ways to make friends, seeking love and aproval from whatever source they can get it. Lets be clear with something: kids do need guidance and aproval, since they are learning. We all do when we are learning not only to know what to do, but also if we are doing it right. However, when no wise, constant, trustworthy role model is available, the sources kids tap can be dubiuos.

I'm amazed when parents don't know their kids, and don't understand why they act the way they do. Honey, if you haven't been paying attention to them, if you haven't been there actively giving them what they need, who did you thought would fill the blanks? Faeries? I'm astonished when teachers can't believe who this or that kid went postal and can't explain why. Don't they have a class at the university about treating kids and reading the signs of troubled kids? Or the assigned school student shrink (whatever the name they give to it, we call it "Orientador")? Got the job for a political favor or capacity?

Today's kids are not a product of the Internet or the TV, and it is irresponsible to blame sources that can't defend themselves. Today's kids are the result of the adults around them.

The Reasons of Hatred

It is not a secret that I don't like my mother-in-law, however lately I've been faced with the extent and nature of my dislike towards her. It is a sad thing that these feelings bring sadness upon Kari's heart, but things are the way they are. My Aunt had wisely advised me to just let her be, and simply go with the flow with her, which I tried, I really did, but upon her rudeness and non-stop agression, I decided to disregard my Aunt's advise and follow my own lead. Namely, avoid her by all means, but if forced to confront her (which is a big IF as I plan to put all my creative skills to use in concocting detours and ways to avoid her, such as inventing newer and newer appointments, tasks and illnesses to skip each and every meeting), I guess I'll be my usual, evil, charming self and give back blow by blow with sneaky, cunning remarks peppered with my full teeth smile.

Realization came upon the fact that my parents were in inminent danger of meeting her, and the proverbial end of the world was to come down. My folks are important to me, which is why I don't wish to expose them to such a toxic person, which is why I did all in my power to keep them from her.

Today I wondered what was, however, behind the feeling, and if it was really that easy for me to walk away from Kari if things became too annoying for me. Truth is that they are already annoying, so I should really be walking away right now. So why don't I? Could it be simply because I'm here, she's there, I blocked her from my gmail and so I don't see her?

Yesterday, as I wrote my entry in the Hungarian blog, I realized that I have fought bigger assholes, I have triumphed over really annoying s.o.b.'s which lead me to conclude that confrontation would be a piece of cake for me, and I would only use the fight and the ill relationship to have a valid reason to stay away from her. It was there when I realized that it would hurt Kari, but not as much for the bad environment, but because his mother would pour her venom on him and fight with him, hurt him in all the ways she can't reach to me, just as his brother does with him right now. This made me realize that I'm not so mad about all the bullshit she throws in my direction, which, yeah, upsets me like hell, but I'm a big, strong, mean girl and I can deal with it with one hand tied to my back, but all the bullshit she throws at my sweet, darling, loving, gentle boyfriend.

The harpie actually feeds on his weakness, his subdued nature, his humongus insecurity, which she herself cultivated in him, to - well, not manipulate him, as this has fallen out of her reach, probably from much probbing - harm and punish in an attempt to constantly establish her "superiority". This is what upsets me, and it annoys me greatly to know that I'm not there to relieve my adored, beautiful boyfriend from the fight with this monster, and so I must leave him there, unprotected, vulnerable to her poisonous claws.

I can sooth him from here, encourage him, love him, ensure him, but it is not the same. Besides, I'm working my ass off to get him to develop some confidence, and there goes the harpie and pushes him back into child-state, insecure, immature by pressure, choking such a charming, amazing man of many talents that so far has never been let express himself creatively.

I must admit, that is my ultimate goal: to release his soul and discover the art that lives within him, but for that, he must find his freedom first, his independence and grasp it, and then, by finding himself in himself, his art will burst out of him like a fountain, and all he is will be splashed around him.

That's what I want to witness.

Blogging From Gmail

So, our bright and have-nothing-better-to-do T.I. morons decided to selectively block the "sites we were abusing of too much". Smurf got his Twitter cut off, and I've got my blogger access cut off. Yeah, totally moronic, I know. And it ain't as if I had been blogging all that, much, or as if by blocking the blogger I will stop blogging. Dude, that ain't gonna happen, as you can see from this post. However, with this utterly shortsighted move, all blogs on blogger have been cut out, which basically means that all work related blogs are also out of reach. Smooth, jackass, real smooth. I guess the perception of "work" is greatly distorted by the antiquated, maquila-minded people who have access to technology and actually believe that everything other than a typing machine is, implicitly, fun. Must admit, people like this do bring to mind Frederick Winslow Taylor, who said (according to some textbooks of mine) "the man who works with brut iron must be as brute as the iron". How does it relate? Well, brut iron is hammered. This control-employees thing basically works pretty much as hammering: it's a really stupid job, focused only on "taking away" and "push into shape", instead of constructively look at the matter, focus on results and step in there where goals are not reached. Thus....

Good thing that those of us used to work our brains, can come around with enough creative solutions to save these setbacks. Yeah, it kinda takes corporative-time out of our schedules, but hey! Happy workers produce better results!

On other matters, I've been mentally developping this "Theory of the Definition of the Self", which I started explaing in an early post, finding more and more cases where this general theory applies. Quite an exciting excersize, I must add.

I was talking with this friend of mine about an acquintance of us and we were discussing this person's "profile", so to say. Sadly, it's the case of this childish person, with a limited view of self and surroundings. Naturally we are talking about a grown person with a typical background for someone of that particular age range. Job, home, car, pet, family. The basics a person must fulfill at a given age to be considered pretty much "normal", if not "functional". Job is good, home is fine, car is fine, pet is ok, family is ok. However, as we step aside from the social formalities and peer into the self, the troubles bubble up like foam from a freshly shaken root beer can.

The person in question has little contact with the surroundings, often ignoring and thus mistreating unintentionally others. The reaction towards the harm caused is basically either a mocking laugher or a shrug. Inappropiate comments fly up and down and the working relationship with colleagues wilts and breaks down quite quickly. Remarks such as "sloppy work", "inflexible standing points, even when faced with mistakes", "much bitching, little producing", "no foreseeing", "disregard of the work of others, prior or subsequent". Remarks flow also around private spheres such as disregard of group decisions, quarrels about being left out, uncalled rude remarks, disregard of the circumstances, meddling with other people's lives, and so on.

Upon review it becomes clear that this is a typical case of a person that hasn't reached emotional maturity, which is quite accentuated by the overly emphasizing of past times and former "good times", which by this age should have been long lived out. I mean, there's no harm in remembering the good old days when we were all kids and played on the street with our fellows, biking up and down, adventuring into the forest or the nearby coffee plantations, but when someone mentions this at least every other day deeping into long, detailed recounting of what it was like, regardless of telling the same story over and over, even though people is long ago ignoring it, tells stuff about the psyche. People reviving constantly good memories, particular periods of their lives are usually locked in them, unable to move on and face their present. Biology may have made the body age with the times, but the mind is stuck for some reason in a given point, refusing to move from it, refusing to learn and evolve past that point.

"Trauma" is a way to give an explanation to the phenomenon. I choose to refuse this explanation, as it usually comes with the included assuption that the harm has been dealt by an external party. Now a days this six letter word is the fencing sword wiggled around by parents and kids to justify quarreling with teachers and why the let kids do whatever they want, and in the case of the kids, to get away with murder and be let do whatever stupid thing they have picked up from their buddies or the TV. "Trauma" strips people from the tools and ways to do something, but give them an awesome escape route away from responsability. So, instead of pinning the emotional evolutionary stagnation on the XXIst Century's Escape Goat, I rather turn to the relationship with the self, the perception and definition of the self to find the obstacles to the natural development of the psyche and the behavioral patterns.

What can make a person to stop his or her own emotional evolution? This is a question I'm so far not prepared to answer properly, as it must be noticed, I have never studied psychology, though I have been sent to quite a fair share of shrinks and psychiatrist in my life. My initial guess is that some kind of dislike of the self, or a fear rooted around facing the unknown, a sort of Peter Pan or Dorian Gray "complex", keeps people from moving on, from allowing themselves take the responsability of the knowledge coming along with the evolution of the self, the new responsabilities sorted upon could be cause for the halt in the natural growing.

Oh well, I would continue, but I'm out of time...

This remains open for sequel.

Do You Believe in Time?

Time can be measured in many different ways, not only with clocks and calendars. Thus time, particularly elapsed time have several measures, many of which can be subjective and mattering only to one person or a tiny group of them. These measures can also pertain only a given situation, activity, person, etc. I have one of these subjective, particular time measurers too, for my blogging. Basically, it's Dragonfly-cr. When she has posted twice or more since my last post, it means that it has already taken me too long to post. Not like it would really-really matter how often or not do I post, but still.

Time also takes relevance and gets different ways of measure at the office. The time before lunch, the time after lunch and before busting the joint. The time until the meeting, the time until every presentation has been shown. The time it takes the coffee to be ready, the time before the deadline, the time the printer takes to be done with your work. The time it takes the Express to deliever you your bagel with chives cream cheese and two cokes. The time it takes you to reach the monthly goal.

Eventually your mind seems to elapse dissove and you wonder whether time is real and whether it really does exist, even though you live in it.

Basically you don't see time, you don't smell it, don't taste it, don't hear it, don't feel it. You can't really say either that you experice it's effect on things. People don't get old because of time, but get old because of biological questions. Time doesn't make plants grow or cars rust. Time doesn't push the Earth around the Sun, nor move the moon around the planet. These all happen for other reasons, all of them studied by now, researched, named, proved, typified and gathered into "laws". However time itself, inspite of being measured in thousand and thousand of times, can't be grasped.

Time can also gets feared, blamed, avoided, spent, wasted, used up productively, taken advantage of, cherished, remembered, forgoten, stolen, given, taken, rearranged, shared, combined, sought, found... and it is said that time is gold. But is time gold? For if it is, gold should also be time, and it is not. So again, what and where is this "time" we do so many things with?

Basically people live "in" time, never questioning it, not for a split of it doubting it's existence even though nobody can prove it, nor can any one point at it. Nobody pulls a war over it, and there are no achronos, monochronos, polichronos people (though I do believe we are all basically polichronos).

If time is so important, and God too is so important, I wonder why can't God (God, not Religion) be accepted just the same.

Definition of Self

It was TOUGH! Oh dear Chuck, I had quite a battle and then quite a windmill to wrestle, had help from my boss, God bless his kind heart, but then it was me and Excel againt the Planet! Boss even said I was all surrounded by Hidrogen and Helium - I was a star. Good, because I was feeling like going Supernova any minute. But then, the A-Team Excel and I made conquered. So, basically I worked my pretty brains off on the job - which gave me such a boost of selfsatisfaction like you have no idea, and which many people would openly call "excesive" since if there is something in this planet I definitively do not lack of, but rather have on insane and almost unhealthy surplus is SELFESTEEM. This being said, yeah, I didn't spend a speck of time thinking about a topic to share with the wide, dark, silent, mysterious, unknown world  behind the screen and down the gutter of the Internet.

So, once the world was OK again, the stars had aligned and it was Peace, I sat here and thought to myself: "Self, shall we blog?", but I had nothing particular in my head to share. So I went to check on Dragonfly's blog, and saw this topic of her, which gave me the Topic of mine. Yeah, kinda like a MEME, only not.

Dragonfly is reading this book that made her think about the elements that define us and our lives ,and found passages in it that confirmed her long honed theory that life turns around relationships.

As you can imagine, individualistic, existentialism Me immediatelly pushed against the idea, even though I realize that relationships do define a lot of people and their lives. However the matter here is how do we define "relationships", and whether such definition applies only to the relationships with others or also includes the relationship with oneself. Starting here, though I do not object the absolute validity of Dragonfly's vision, it is my opinion that the actual definer of oneself and the definer of life and how we live it is the relationship one has with oneself.

Basically the one being we spend most of our time with, therefore it is the one we are in closer contact with, relate to more and so on, is ourselves. You think from your own point of view, process the world the situations, the information always from your own perspective, your point of view, which might be flawedly based on the opinion of someone else, yet it never is exactly someone else's point of view or opinion since you must use your own version, your own understanding, your own "copy" of it.

Our concept of "person" our sense of pain, joy, fear, trust comes from what we feel, what we experience. Even when we "understand" others we do it by piecing up the information we perceive from them and builing it up in ourselves with bits of our own experiences. So, expanding this outwards, our way to relate to others also depend on the way we relate to ourselves. The relationships we build out are deeply influenced by our own relationship with ourselves. For me this is the root to a collection of "traumas" and complexes and emotional needs people have, as for the shortcomings of their relationship with themselves must be compensated with the relationship with others. This is how people who do not love themselves demand so much love and attention from others. Those who feel unsecure crave for security from the relationship with others. Those who can't care about themselves crave to be cared for by others. Those who feel they have a lot of care to give, but there's nothing (in their eyes) to care for about themselves, care so much about others. And so on.

So, if in this sense our relatioship with others is defined by our relationship with ourselves, in the end, what is the element that defines the self and our lives? It's inner, it's the way we see ourselves. We are, in the end, what we see, what we know, what we do of ourselves, and this defines our lives.

Down this line, it is irrational to expect someone else to fix your life, make it better, make you happy, as the source from where your life pours is you and onyl you have access to it, and only you can change it. Thing is that other people's relationships with you do not replace your relationship with yourself, and though it is nice to know others think well of yourself, in the end of the day, the opinion that matters is what you think of yourself. Basing your self image on the opinion of other is a sure shortcut towards depression and possibly suicide, specially since the image others have of yourself is not only incomplete, but also distorted by their own vision. How?

Well, for instance I consider being humble a flaw and being proud a virtue, contrary to the vast majority of people. Thus, there were others would see a humble person as nice and gentle, I would se the exact same person as stupid and worthless. So, someone not knowing how I see the world, what my personal believes are, would think that this person is nice, gentle, but stupid and worthless. Which opinion is valid? All of them, then, this person IS nice, gentle, stupid and worthless? Well, let me give you some insight to the mind of menkind: we are all more prone to believe the bad than the good. So, if this humble person were to base his or her vision of self on the opinion of others, said person would truly believe that he or she is stupid and worthless. But is it?

What matters is what you think of yourself.