the mine metaphor
At first it seems easy,
And it comes down to the same old choice.
like unplugging a bathtub filled with water, just pull and -swoooosh. No harm.
But gradually you become aware of the harm you might cause.
And continuing forward appears to you as though you are approaching a minefield.
You cannot stand still- cause it will take you nowhere- but every step could tear you apart.
However, you know there's somewhere beyond that field you want to get to, the past perhaps, but even so.
And it comes down to the same old choice.
To risk being blown into pieces or to settle for being just a little piece of what you wanted to be.
so I keep treading the ground..risking..valuing..
so I keep treading the ground..risking..valuing..
An unexploaded dream
Not all those who wonder are lost or aimless.
Void of substance, always running so that they never have to stop and think.
Some just refuse to stop looking for the rainbow, seeking the colors of life even when the world is grey.
Knowing that just sitting back and enjoying the ride will never be enough.
That black and white can be turned into orange if only you try a little harder.
That black and white can be turned into orange if only you try a little harder.
And so we wander.
We keep searching for that decision that makes all the difference, that yellow wooden path,
the firework that gives the sky a different color, the skin of light.
Hoping that whatever it is we find at the end of the rainbow is an explosion of shades, our secret illusion tinted with our heart's desire. Truth?
Now, if this seems naïve, you might ask yourself. Are you living the life you imagined?
_____________________________
To avoid discovery I stay on the run.
To discover myself I stay on the run.
Let's pretend you missed me for a while
We are all busy being ourselves.
People come and go, but some people go and come.
Thinking about being ourselves. Showing others the selves that we are.
But I know you and I see you. I used to know you.
Almost as though if nobody knows who we are, we don't exist at all.
'I am seen, therefore I am.'- the winged words of our generation.
And people don't see, because there are so many things in the way. Egos, business, drama.
But I know you and I see you. I used to know you.
I knew the words to tick you off, how to make you wrinkle your face, to sigh loudly and to leave.
Never quite figured out how to make you laugh, but have a slight suspiscion you sometimes smiled secretly.
Because you did see me.
People come and go, but some people go and come.
millions of pieces silently vibrating, remembering their past.
why does nothing matter as much as that?
But development is no longer considered cyclical. The end of a process is different from the beginning.
Everything is changed. And all that was known is no longer.
And so I keep myself busy being myself.
tutto il tempo non basta.
Dimmi perchè
hai tutto il tempo e il tempo non ti basta
hai tutto il cielo e il cielo non lo guardi mai
Quel che rimane indietro
indietro lascerai.
hai tutto il tempo e il tempo non ti basta
hai tutto il cielo e il cielo non lo guardi mai
Quel che rimane indietro
indietro lascerai.
Dimmi perchè
hai vento tra le dita e non ti alzi
guardi passare i giorni e non ci rientri mai
Lascio una luce accesa
lì ti scalderai.
hai vento tra le dita e non ti alzi
guardi passare i giorni e non ci rientri mai
Lascio una luce accesa
lì ti scalderai.
to live in a country that exists only to some
This blog has been spared from my political engagements, zealous opinions and commentaries on the world around me. The headline says philosophy from the junkyard of my mind and perhaps it's time I left that junkyard,
that narcissistic playingfield where I've dwelled for years now. Word-inflation, thought-stagnation
Well, I do have new thoughts. Plans, dreams and projects to be realized.
Western Sahara is one of thouse thoughts.
These three courageous young women in the picture are Saharawis. They spend their time fighting for a freedom that is obvious to most, except to the ones who have the power to grant them it.
Morocco has been occupying Western Sahara since the 1970s and the people are split up between the occupied areas and large refugee camps in Tindouf, Algeria. The EU systematically allows European companies to access fish from the occupied areas through a vague fishing agreement with Morocco that makes no mention of Western Sahara and thus provides no protection.
The Saharawis have to watch their land being stripped of all its resources even before they've seen their freedom.
The UN have seemingly given up on any sort of reconciliation between Saharawi and Moroccan demands.
So, what remains?
A warm, passionate people determined to fight til the end.
A people that have set up their own administration, their own parliament in the midst of a refugee camp outside of their own territory. Young boys and girls growing up with the dream of being the generation that will experience freedom. The simple freedom of having your own country. A country they have a right to.
These people are not looking for a better future somewhere else, they do not want to escape or try their luck in another country. They want to stay, despite all the hardship.
They stay for their country and their people. And it is the duty of the world to make their courage known.
Enticed by my own allegory
where old thoughts come to me in new costumes,
to fool me or to test me, I do not know.
I play the part, I am strong, I look at myself and I don't remember.
I know the memories, but I cannot remember them.
The pictures are like photos in someone else's album, familiar but not mine.
When we can't recall something our brain fills in the blank spaces.
There's no separating the real memories from the artificially created ones.
Running barefoot in the rain, desperate not to lose something already lost
Laughing over a silly invented game. Sharing.
Waking up and knowing everything is changed.
Falling to sleep hoping nothing ever changed.
Secrets. trading secrets. Being secrets.
But.
I am no longer that lonley acacia tree, waiting for the masai to come find me, to give me water and love.
I want the whole savannah. I want all the acacias and everything surrounding them. I want Serengeti.
Ironic, is it not?
All this time I thought it was just an allegory that I created.
I should know by now that metaphors are tricky things. They might entice you.
Only the impossible
Is it a vanity thing?
This UN-specific obsession; is it another one of those things I pursue with zeal because it is difficult?
Only the impossible is worth the effort..
Why do I want it so bad?
How can I describe this uncontainable feeling I get when reading the outlined tasks,
I start reading the sentences but I cannot finish, because I am picturing myself performing them.
I cannot complete my application, for already I'm trying to decide if Addis Abeba is better than Nairobi.
Dreams..what else is life about?
Someone told me I should "just get married so that I can calm down".
What does that mean? Put an armchair in my stomach and a tv in my head.
As if marriage was the antidote to dreaming.
And since when is dreaming a threatening epidemic that must be stopped?
Some are meant to live pleasant lives, in comfortable harmony and security.
Others look at the horizon and know they must reach for other things.
It's not about being calm or wild, it's a basic instinct.
Dreams pass into reality of action. From action stems the dream again.
And this interdependence produces the highest form of living.
post-sentiment
People often talk about decisive moments of action, in which you see people for who they really are.
How do you transcend old ways of being and create new ones? Can you?
Not everything that comes back is the same.
Ed. note: To re-establish the balance,
it should be pointed out that my favourite people made my weekend absolutely lovely.
But there are also those crucial instants of nihil, nada, of absolutely nothing.
Leaving you wondering if it was always nothing and you just conjured it all.
Perhaps because you needed a castle, so you build it in the air.
How do you transcend old ways of being and create new ones? Can you?
Something dangerous turns mundane, what was once intense becomes tepid and a little too diluted.
Is either/or sometimes better, easier?
Craving the cake, tasting it, having it, spitting it out and trying to eat it again..does that ever work?
And if you want to make it work, does that mean you are weak?
Or do I mistake pride for strength again?
Not everything that comes back is the same.
The old metaphors are tinted with bitterness, but they still echo in my mind.
After all, words are weapons that continue to cut long after the sound is gone.
And old wounds must be covered by new smiles, not the memory of past ones.
Ed. note: To re-establish the balance,
it should be pointed out that my favourite people made my weekend absolutely lovely.
When in doubt, don't pout
What defines me,
what sets the limits of my possibilities,
sheds a light on my inner questions?
everything bits and pieces of something else,
memories, fragments, illusory elements, premonitions of things that won't come.
similes, clichés, rethorical tricks created for effect.
But underneath? Can I trust this language, these words are they mine?
These thoughts, associations made before I realize it, connotations created for me.
Where do they come from? Do they define me?
Where do they come from? Do they define me?
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
In Capoeira, they say a kick is a question and the defence is the answer.
- a martial metaphor.
Someone wrote that the meaning of life is to find the question to which you are the answer.
- a hollywood hypocrisy.
I'm starting to think the Question/Answer enigma is a bit like the Journey/Destination dilemma.
Some just prefer asking the questions without ever hoping to find the answers.
I'll keep kicking.
I'll keep kicking.
Fairweather Friend
There are those who forgive and forget,
go on with their lives happily, unbothered and untouched by past failures.
Me, I'm a dweller.
Dwellers obsess. They refuse to move on, obstinately remaining where they are.
Despite all their better judgment. Comme ca.
I feel tempted to say I am playing with fire
But fire is actively burning, red, hot and with a big warning side, albeit metaphorical.
I seek out the ardouring ashes and blow new life into them.
I don't play with fire, I make fire.
I am the fire. Or is it you?
No amount of water could put it out. It insists on its being.
We were here once, is that true?
We shared our insides and then we shared a mistake.
Immediately erasing all those rights with one wrong.
Two wrongs don't make a right, they make an end.
But,
Maybe the end is the beginning.
We are here, is it not true?
Always here in this space I created for us, this bubble that I imagined.
Reality has nothing to do with it. Why should it?
I see your silhouette and I reach out to touch it.
There's no scent, only skin.
No illusion, only what was always there.
Imperfect humanity.
Words that work and words that won't
Just cause you feel it, doesn't mean it's there.
A truism I've repeated til my fingers bleed and my heart believed it.
Never did I expect the opposite might be true.
Just 'cause you don't feel it, doesn't mean it is not there.
Was jotting down those words the written equivalent to a mystic potion?
A voodoo doll, a subconscious thought not quite articulated?
A sublime presentiment...
And more to the point, do I relize the extent of where that potion takes me?
A metaphor.
The entire conversation a metaphor for what we would not admit, let alone say.
I am sorry.I missed you? I missed it.
We do it in a sophisticated way, an elegant dance of eloquence,
passing emotions as passengers on a train pass stations.
Never stopping to get off the train and step out in the real world.
But it does not matter.
The hope that is in me is from the soul, is for the soul.
Not present, actual, superficial life, but the real solid world of images.
I hope that the real solid world of images will prevail.
And i need not remind you of the power of metaphors.
But I feel fairly certain I will be doing that over the next couple of weeks.
hint: Dr. Frank Luntz
A truism I've repeated til my fingers bleed and my heart believed it.
Never did I expect the opposite might be true.
Just 'cause you don't feel it, doesn't mean it is not there.
Was jotting down those words the written equivalent to a mystic potion?
A voodoo doll, a subconscious thought not quite articulated?
A sublime presentiment...
And more to the point, do I relize the extent of where that potion takes me?
A metaphor.
The entire conversation a metaphor for what we would not admit, let alone say.
I am sorry.I missed you? I missed it.
We do it in a sophisticated way, an elegant dance of eloquence,
passing emotions as passengers on a train pass stations.
Never stopping to get off the train and step out in the real world.
But it does not matter.
The hope that is in me is from the soul, is for the soul.
Not present, actual, superficial life, but the real solid world of images.
I hope that the real solid world of images will prevail.
And i need not remind you of the power of metaphors.
But I feel fairly certain I will be doing that over the next couple of weeks.
hint: Dr. Frank Luntz
