A human being is only the self he seeks

Sometimes a globe is better than a crystal ball
and sometimes a book is better than an adventure

These new ones are lying here on the table, making me drool.
I have a feeling Philosophy in the Flesh will be the book of the year, although we're still in January,
written by George Lakoff, the cognitive linguist and political advocacy advisor that often focuses on the importance of metaphor in framing ideas and when shaping public opinion.

Also much looking forward to Ahlenius' book about the down-fall of the United Nations.
Will see if she manages to convince me of "Banki's" unforgivable mistakes...

viva la revolución?

All the struggle in the word
serves to remind me how minor my own stuff is
the things I call problems are just points of view, detours and time-lags.
Sometimes they are just my own thoughts,
which makes me feel vain and spoiled.

Thoughts now go to Egyptians, Tunisians, Algerians and the likes
who face their fear and demand what should have been given to them a long time ago.
The dream about another life is materializing for them
but the struggle is just beginning.

While we sit here and discuss how good it is that the riots are finally starting
picturing it as a necessary evil that comes right before democracy
But God knows how long the transition will be
and how bloody.

accidental hindsight, purposeful vision

The slightest accidents
open up new worlds.
I should know.
you know.

there's no such thing as accidents
I make my own bed, he makes his.
he makes hers.
I tuck myself in,
wake up in a new world.

/No quiero ver lo que pase todos los dias afuera/

Some days I just get stuck
In a surreal world between facts and fiction. past and present.
yes, I get attached. Yes, it happens a lot.

Like, when you don't want to read the last page of a book,
cause you know you 'll have to go back to your own life.
Or when you've had a certain song on repeat for hours
and it's no longer just a song but the soundtrack of your life.

When you flip through photographs
of what seems like past lifetimes,
even though the smell is still there.
ah. the smell.


Randomness is indistinguishable from complicated,
undetected and undetectable order;
but order itself is indistinguishable from artful randomness.

Unexpectedly understanding

I have discussed time and time again, the dialectics of reason versus emotion
thinking I would pick emotion over reason every time.
But it was recently pointed out to me that I have an unnatural obsession with logic.

I started thinking about how I've handled some conflicts, problems, uncertanties and there it was:
the inexorable discovery of what you don't want to know (but must learn from)
Logic, reason and the attempt to make sense of everything indeed drive my behavior.

Using said logic to ponder this for a while... what is so bad about logic?
Well, for starters, my logic might not be the same as that of others,
so when I apply my own sense of logic to understand the actions of another
I inevitably fail miserably.

And so I have
in understanding, in explaining, in expecting, and even in hoping.
When things did not make sense I put them in the my metaphorical mixer
and out they came; Sophia-style, compartmentalized, logical.

The only true wisdom is knowing that you know nothing

inertia creeps

it is always in the midst of grey, incessant snow that the nostalgia comes creeping
(things that creep: nostalgia & inertia)
I am confident that if we could find the andidote to the specific chemical
that illuminates the past and puts it on a pidestal,
there would be a great increase of success, happiness and self-realization in the world.

Just now, while doing laundry, of got to thinking of Vienna.
How I did my laundry in the bath tub for 2 months.
And horrified I found myself thinking fondly back and this primitive procedure.
Let me tell you, there's nothing romantic about zealously washing your underwear in the tub.
Nothing glorified about your room constantly filling up with wet clothes to dry,
with the constant smell of washing detergent.

But even so, I smile when I think about it.
like someone might when thinking about an old joke, a familiar face, a close friend
My memory is clearly distorted.
I am not surprised, but I am alarmed.

Erase/replace or Repeat/delete

Jag er ikke sint....

Basic Instinct

"There was so much in you that charmed me that I thought I had to tell you something about yourself"

A lucky charm?..not nearly.
Lucky Charms are the same as Voodo Dolls in the end anyways.
- fake magic.

More than anything it was the secret understanding
the unspoken bond between them that could not be undone
The Not Knowing if, when, maybe... the slight suspicion
the anticipation of something not identified, not even really considered

Before the feeling comes the anticipation of feeling.
Forget 'you had me at hello' ; He had her at presentiment.

The word is yours (mine)

No man is an island, this has been said and written many a times.
Inevitably, this means that nobody can be seen as completely independent,
not his personality nor his personal development; they are both fruits of his environment,
his network and the values to which he has been exposed.

As you might know by now, I am very much dependent on literature.
On the written word, stories, descriptions and alternatives of the so-called reality.
But contrary to so many other bibliophiles, I have not built my personal bubble
by surrounding myself with the great literary personas as my allies.
Holden Caulfield, Marian MacAlpin and Dorian Grey, though important protagonists in the stories I know so well,
are not the most valuable imprints I have chosen to take with me from their stories.

I indulge in the words.
I rarely remember the names of ficticious characters at all, but I can quote more phrases than I've read books.
As I re-read my favourite books, these phrases become my fellow conspirators, my friends.
I think of them often and fondly and gradually they became my own. It's not really stealing, is it?
It certainly is not intentional...
One day I merely find myself answering to an enigmatic question in the words of
Milan Kundera, Jeanette Winterson and Anaïs Nin.
Yet they feel like they arise from my soul.

Meaning is never absolute nor definitive.
and words are signifiers only.
My signified is my construction, even though I borrow the signs from the masters.

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