Butterfly dress

Things that we haven’t done are the most splendid. The conversations that never took place, the gestures, withdrawn at the last moment, the songs we never sang, the books never written, the letters never sent. The words we never uttered. The dresses we never wore, hanging in the closet, waiting for the once-in-a-lifetime occasion.

All those are the greatest things on earth. They start with “If only I had…” followed by a past participle. Here begins a journey to perfection. But there are two main sorts: a moaning and a dreamy variant. It makes a huge difference which one you adhere to.

In a moaning variant you believe that it was possible and even highly recommendable to do, say, sing, write or wear the things that, by some awful twist of fate, lack of courage or insight, you finally did not attempt. In the long run it makes you feel useless, flawed, guilty, incompetent or unfortunate. One day you just give up, and stop believing in the possibility of getting there: meeting that person, having that conversation, singing that song, getting into that size…

 The dreamy variant assumes that all those things be better left in the realm of potentiality. It doesn’t mean giving up however – it only perpetually postpones the moment supreme. As a consequence, you’re always hanging there with your paw above the jar of honey, but never dropping it into the liquid (and better so, as this honey, continually postponed, must be way past its “best before” date). If you’re a proponent of the dreamy variant, you live in a state of constant anticipation of the greatest moments of all.

I should have worn my butterfly-print dress that evening… there was a gentle breeze on the coast…they would have taken off from the fabric, fly away and never come back… I’d watch them disappear in the dunes. I’d be left with a plain white dress instead, unfinished, holding a promise of perfection.

My best blog entry will be blank.

Frequent Flyer Witch programme

Ever since I discovered the power of little black symbols on a white background, I’ve used every opportunity to jot a few of them down. I loved the touch of the fountain pen on a sheet of paper. I loved the ticking of an old-fashioned Remington typewriter, and the magic with which it transformed a hand-written page into something official, something book-like.

I’ve always been claiming, however, that I didn’t care about actually becoming  someone starting with a W, as the passion is in the doing, not the becoming.

But now I realise this wasn’t entirely true: there is at least one good reason to wish to be able to legitimately call myself something starting with a W. The reason comes from Chapter 55 of “The French Lieutenant’s Woman”, my beloved novel by John Fowles. The protagonist, Charles, is sitting in an empty train compartment, craving for solitude to reflect on the crisis he’s going through. Unfortunately, that won’t be long – there enters a particularly annoying stranger. A man in his forties, prophet-bearded, with an aura of confidence about him: “if not quite confidence in self, at least a confidence in his judgment of others, of how much he could get out of them, expect from them, tax them.” The man’s stare “became positively cannibalistic in its intensity”, expressing “a desire to know you in a way you do not want to be known by a stranger. In my experience there is only one profession that gives that particular look”.  That “positively cannibalistic” man is the writer himself, as is revealed a few sentences further.

What a great occupation that  is, one that gives you the right to stare voraciously at strangers and ask them inquisitive questions like: who are you? Have you found the sense of life yet? What is your one favourite food ingredient? Do you iron your own shirts yourself?

 I’ve always loved to ask those questions to strangers, to cut them open like you cut open the pages of some virgin books - but my problem is that I don’t always dare. Sometimes I’m paralysed by the fear of judgment they might make of me.  Chances are that they will suspect I want to abuse them, misuse them, earn money on them, talk them into something or plain seduce them. Sometimes they think I’m lesbian. Sometimes they think I’m looking for a one night stand (therefore, if it’s inquisitive questions or voracious stare your after - it's usually safer to attempt it in the morning. The chances that the stranger might suspect  you of being  a one-night-stand -hunter are smaller, as only extremely motivated people or extremely careful planners  begin their hunt already in the morning.)

But if I could legitimately call myself a name starting with a W, then I’d suddenly find myself beyond all suspicion. People would cheer up, feel at ease, and eagerly share their stories with me. At least, this is what I believe, as I've never tried this method so far.

And use them - I would indeed. Though probably without them noticing, and they certainly wouldn't be at a loss at all - not abused, not misused, not talked into something - only gently coaxed into telling me their story. You never know who's sitting next to you unless you start to talk.

You will never know if the serious-looking guy at the next table irons his own shirts, unless you ask. But why would  I want to know that in the first place? I don’t know. It just came to my mind suddenly, it popped up as the conversation unfolded. Within ten minutes or so I met two grown-up and be-wifed (married) men who assured me they do iron their own shirts and that they liked it that way. One of them even had the courage to give his testimonial on a video. I keep it on my phone and cherish the memory of it as a very special moment. The moment when I decided to become A WITCH.

I've decided I’ll ask all approachable strangers if they iron their shirts by themselves. It will go like this:

-          Excuse me, sir, do you mind if I ask you just one question? – no doubt the stranger will inspect me suspiciously, wondering  “What does she want from me?”, but saying probably something like this:

-          Ok, but just a short one. I’m in a bit of a hurry.

-          I’ll be short, I promise. You know, I’m a witch, and I’m currently doing some research for my new piece. Would you mind telling me if you iron your own shirts?

 I'll do it more often. I'll call myself a name. People find names so comforting. I'll introduce myself as a humble and hungry witch. A BeWitch. A Witch waiting to be BeWitched by your story.

Before, now or then?

What is better? The anticipation, the moment itself, or the memory of it? I know someone who claims it’s the moment, and would even dare disagree with Winnie-the-Pooh. I find it an absolute disgrace to Pooh, who might be a bear of very little brain, but he does know something about a little something (which usually is honey in his particular case). And if he claims it’s anticipation – anticipation be it. I’m not going to disagree, because Pooh is a friend of my brother Rabbit, and if he’s a friend of my brother, he’s also a friend of mine. Disagree – it’s not what you do to friends, is it?

But, wait a second… How about a Very Nice Surprise which was a surprise? So you couldn’t possibly anticipate it, and that’s why it was soooo nice? Would the moment itself win in such cases, as there was no anticipatory pleasure? No, no, in a rare case like that (as Very Nice Surprises are scarce in this world saturated with careful planning) it’s the memory that becomes better than the Very Nice Surprise. (In Pooh’s terms: if he run out of honey, and a friend of him unexpectedly offered him a new jar filled with the golden liquid, recalling the moment of getting the jar would win with the actual getting and emptying it).  With time passing by, the memory swells and grows, the moment becomes even more poetic or spectacular, the pleasure – divine. You forget that your feet were sore and that the air was a bit too cold, and that it was a little late, and you had a perspective of a very short night and a very tiring red-eye day awaiting you. What stays is the essence – now polished, embellished and stylishly framed.

That someone I know still claims she prefers the moment above all memories or anticipations. And as she’s telling me that, I ask her to tell me her favourite story. And I listen, and it’s great indeed, full of thrills: wind in her hair and sand in her shoes, a moon like a slice of an orange, and a hand in a stranger’s hand. I listen with an open mouth, and begin to wish I was there, too. I picture the wind in my hair, the sand in my shoes, the moon like a slice of an orange and my hand in a stranger’s hand. I’m almost convinced – that moment truly was exquisite!

But it’s not happening now, my dear! It’s just a memory.

You’d need to try and convince me once again. Empirically. Take me there with you next time.

Vantage point

Does this picture have  anything in common with space travel? I'll show you it does:

When I read an interview with André Kuipers, a Dutch physician and astronaut who recently came back to Earth after more than six months in space, what struck me the most was the description of the interior of the station itself. Not so much the equipment and facilities, but the fact that each time you enter a module you need to reassess your position. There is no point of reference, no absolute “floor” or “ceiling”.  Depending on the way you enter, you may find the stationary bike on the ceiling, or a toilet on the wall. No need to panic – you just reposition yourself to fit the situation. For instance, if you need to exercise, you turn “upside down” (which is not the right expression anyway, as there’s no absolute “up” or “down”), and if you need to use the toilet, you turn in such a way that the wall becomes your floor. It makes little sense to protest “Who the hell has moved the toilet again?!”, as it’s common knowledge on the International Space Station that it’s you who moved, not the toilet.

Now, this might be relatively easy to accept and adjust to if you are on a space station, but in our life on Earth it’s rarely the case. We’re so used to our gravitational field that we don't even notice it (I'm delighted to hear though that the cries of the Higgs particles "we're here!" have recently been recognized, which probably won't change the reckless, matter-of-fact attitude most of us have to the wonders we're immersed in anyway). Our world is so full of established certainties (up-down, east-west,  right-left) that we don’t even attempt to imagine that it all could be different. Worse even, we extrapolate those certainties onto other, non-directional, domains. We tend to know better what should be where, who should be doing what, what others should think/feel/say… After all, the ground is on the ground and the skies are in the skies. Sometimes we step into a situation and know directly it is no good and needs to be changed.

 “My stationary bike on the ceiling?! – no way!”

“My husband/wife/partner is leaving me?! – no way!”

I’m not comparing husbands to stationary bikes, nor am I a promoter of divorce. What I want to say is that sometimes it’s not the surroundings that have secretly been adjusted against your will, but you yourself that has entered the module in a different way (e.g. upside down, or with wrong expectations).

The interview with Mr. Kuipers has been a great inspiration. Next time I’m greeted by a colleague with a grumpy half-hallo, instead of getting upset, I’ll leave the office and re-enter it a moment later. Upside down.

Sticking to your own vantage point may be a great disad-vantage.

Message to Posterity (on the use of paper cups)

Somewhere in the second decade of the 21^st century, KLM stopped using Styrofoamcups to serve their warm drinks. Those were replace by a new variety, a cooperation with the company called `Blond` from Amsterdam. Whatever its name could suggest, the company wasn´t stupid at all.

Those KLM `Cup of Blond` cups were made of paper and some natural additives. Therefore, when you drank your tea, there no longer was an artificial Styrofoam fragrance getting into your nostrils. No, when your nose got immersed in the savoury vapours, what you detected was this sweet, subtle smell of paper, the smell of good old fashioned BOOKS!

For those who think I made a typo here, and forgot to add an “e” in front – let me explain what I mean. Books are the ancestors of your e-variety. Instead of the words being displayed on a screen, they were printed on paper. Such books were always in flight-mode. You turned the pages, instead of scrolling. They included no interaction: no hyperlinks, no search buttons. If you needed to mark a fragment, you simply used a pencil, a bookmark or a post-it note. You might have seen some elderly people still browsing through them, shyly hidden in the corner. Do you get the picture?

Such books had a smell of their own. That fragrance was different depending on the kind of paper used, the age of the book, storage conditions, the perfume used by the reader, the conditions in which it was read (a book that had been dropped in an ocean smells different than an un-dropped one, even after drying) and many other factors. They made sounds – some of them cracked when opened, there was a gentle sound of rustling, there was the slight “bang” of closing the volume... (incase of large volumes, it became a … big bang). And, above all: they whispered when you turned the pages. They did. Whisper, this is what books did if you listened carefully.

When you just began reading, there was this lightness between the fingers of your left hand, and heaviness in the right one. As you approached the middle, the thickness on your left hand side increased. It was a very pleasant feeling. You knew you were past the middle if the fingers of your right palm had less and less to hold.

Towards the end, came the moment supreme – only a few pages left in your right hand. You felt the thrills down your spine – justa few more minutes, and you could close it, put it back, and run your index finger through the backs of the volumes in the bookcase (that’s a kind of a cupboard or wardrobe, but used for storing books instead of pottery or clothes). Only a few moments separating you from choosing your next destination, and that moment truly was thrilling… Winnie-the-Pooh got it right long ago: “… there is a moment before you begin to eat it which is better than when you are”.

Those books had one more advantage above the e-variety: their title and author were printed on the cover, so with just a little effort you could usually see what others were reading. That initiated many intriguing contacts with fellow human beings.

But I guess you can’t be missing something you’ve never smelled, can you? You certainly wouldn’t mind the fragrance of a plastic cup or an e-reader… You don't know any better, do you?

Theory of creativity

"People think of creativity as if it was magic. It's not. It's just seeing links that aren't obvious, and the rest is hard work".
These are the words of my chance fellow-traveller I met on board a plane a year ago. He was asleep above a page full of formulas. I don't understand pages full of formulas. I need to see it in words. But he was asleep, and I couldn't wait till he wakes up. I just HAD to know what they were about.

 I used the opportunity when the stewardess woke him up to ask something probably very important (like: would you like coffee or tea, sir?) I fired my question straightaway, maybe too straight for a man that has just woken up: "is this physics?" he looked at me, almost shocked. "I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't mean to be rude, it's just that I rarely see people reading formulas on the plane. Are you a physicist?". "Oh, no problem. I just didn't expect that. Yes, I'm a theoretical physicist." he said. "What is it that you do, as a theoretical physicist?" "I develop models describing interaction between elementary particles". ("he's a poet, I thought")

What followed was probably the most interesting conversation I ever had on a plane. The time flew by, I almost didn't notice the landing.

All this brought me, metaphorically, closer to understanding the theory of relativity. This is what metaphors do: create links that aren't obvious.

Thank you, Mr. Unknown by name. Are there many clouds above CERN? There's no statistics that I know of to prove it, but my personal last-minute theory is that clouded skies boost creativity. If there are no clouds, you can't possibly be in them.

Human(t)hill

It’s very busy in and around an anthill. There’s work to be done: food and construction material to collect, underground corridors to dig, organic stuff to digest, there’s a female to be fertilised, there are eggs to be taken care of, there are larvae to be fed and a security check to be performed.

If someone purposefully puts a stick into their habitat, there’s panic for a while, but soon they come to terms with the losses: they attribute it to a natural disaster and proceed to cleaning up the mess and rebuilding their home. I never heard them moaning “God, how could you have allowed this to happen?”

If someone steps with his shoe into their hill, by accident, they do the same as above: escape, return, rebuild, and if not possible – move somewhere else. Life goes on.

They have a world of their own and they believe it’s the only one. Oh yes, I hear there have been exceptions. There've been some prophets among them, who experienced powerful visions of mighty creatures stepping into their hill, or pouring hot water into their corridors in order to drown the inhabitants. But a vast majority of ants are anti-prophetic. They are pro-labour. They dislike philosophies. Their prophets were fed into the mouths of the young. Nothing got wasted.
Therefore, ants don’t know we exist.

It’s very busy in and around a humanthill. How much do we know about the world beyond it?

Fear of flying

If you travel by plane, you’re not what you are, especially if you travel alone. There’s no one next to you who’d confirm your existence. Therefore, for those few hours, you’re not fully a person, but just a sketch, a mere potential.

First of all, this has to do with physics – high in the sky you must have the highest potential energy (which, as I always imagined, simply means that if you potentially fall, then you’ll do it with a lot of actual energy. So much energy in fact that it will transport you to a different realm. It probably doesn't mean that on board a plane you become particularly energetic).  Secondly, you’re not really a person – because you’re a person- in- the-skies, between the ground and eternity, having no control of what will happen next. You’re close to a potential non-being, even though it’s statistically very unlikely. 

Therefore, before the plane touches the ground, you’re in between being and non-being.  You try to alleviate this uneasy state by talking to someone, working, reading or sleeping. Those activities are an attempt to confirm that you still are the same person as you were on the ground, because after all - you're doing your usual things. But you’re not. Not before the touchdown.

Shall I try to kill the time or devote it to the essential? I opt for the latter. My head grows pregnant with thoughts; I search for the sense of life.

Soon comes the verdict. Relieved, you touch the ground (“I was being very foolish and neurotic” you think). Suddenly you change perspective and you become a full YOU again. Careless and excited.

But how about those thoughts? Intangible creatures, suspended between being and non-being? Have they landed with me, or did they stay in the clouds?

I try to find them back, in my head or jotted down. But they’ve suddenly lost their intensity. When I read them now, they sound neurotic and terribly exaggerated. It’s only on board that they live up to their true meaning. The moment the plane touches down, they lose their force, which is only to return when I’m in the air next time. My quintessence stayed in the clouds. It cannot land.

Church recycling

21^st century Holland is known for being creative with their churches. Many of them have been turned into houses, concert halls, museums, shops, there’s one which was adapted to become Paradise (“Paradiso”), but none, so far as I know, that has become Hell (“Inverno”). One of the old churches in Maastricht houses a grand bookstore (Selexyz Dominicanen).

However appealing it may be to stroll through a garden of books inside a former church building, I doubt the longevity of this idea. The rationale behind church-recycling is:  turn a church into something else more useful, as people lost interest in church as a place for prayer and contemplation. I personally love the idea of “something else” = bookstore, but how durable is it?


Bookstores are dying out too, as people read less and less, preferring to scroll, just touch the surface and quickly rush to the next hyperlink. It causes changes in the brain and makes it quite likely that the generations to come will lose the capacity of deep reflection (Nicolas Carr “The Shallows. What the internet is doing to our brains”). But true reading is more like in this poem by Wallace Stevens:

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm (…)

                         The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

(full text at http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-house-was-quiet-and-the-world-was-calm/) True reading is complete immersion, therefore it dislikes distractions and hyperlinks. It’s a journey of discovery: discovery of the story, but above all – a discovery of yourself. The reader becomes the book and creates the story himself. There is no objective “book”, the book takes place in the mind of the reader. Hence, no book is the same for two people.  

I wonder what this splendid Dominican church will become next… Something more useful...

There’s one more adaptation of a church building which I find particularly appealing. Some believers would call it blasphemous, but I think the founding fathers of KesselsKramer advertising agency (www.kesselskramer.com – don’t be surprised by the completely irrelevant website, you’re at the right place, just browse further) got God’s message right.

All love is creative. God has been the most creative SOMETHING (or the most creative NOTHING, depending on which philosophy you adhere to).

This unfortunately cannot be said of Church as an institution, most of the time.

Small heads, big insights

Wisdom by T. and S., my sons, my love:

Non-conformism redefined:

T, seeing the wild peaches on the kitchen table:

-      What are these, mum?

-      They are called wild peaches.

-      Oh, I know why they are called “wild”. That’s because they don’t want to be round.

Being at peace with who you are:

T, seeing a monk in his usual attire, i.e. brown cassock, belted with a piece of a simple rope-like thing.

-          Mum, I don’t want to become a priest when I get older.

-          That’s ok, son. Why this conclusion now?

-          Because I can’t tie knots.

-          Fair enough. When you’re older, you can become whoever you wish.

-          But I don’t want to become anyone. I want to stay your child.

Searching for alternatives:

My kids can easily place their feet in their mouths, for no particular reason, but for fun. Once they performed this trick in bath, and I expressed my admiration:

-          You two are really good in it, I wouldn’t manage even if I tried!

-          So try. – says S., encouragingly.

So I tried, and I failed.

S. sticks out his little foot out of the bathtub, and offers help:

- You can try mine, if you want!

All kids are philosophers, only a few stay like this when they  grow up:

S., at the age of 2, looking at me, and touching his head:

“I have a head, too.”

Noticing links that aren’t obvious:

When we go on holiday, we usually stay in the countryside, visiting the city nearby from time to time. To T.’s regret, I’m always tempted to go and visit a shopping mall when we’re there. Like most little boys, he’s not a big fan of shopping, especially not the kind that involves spending hours in the changing room.

Therefore, his preference goes to staying in the countryside, running around, climbing trees, swimming and exploring his grandfather’s garage. Once he made a curious observation:

-          Trees make it impossible for people to go shopping. That’s why there are hardly any in the city.

Scientific insights:

After a long flight above the clouds, when the plane has landed: “Clouds can fly, but they cannot land”.

Questioning prejudice:

“Why are God and Jesus boys?”

Knowing the right moment:

On a walk back from school:

-          S., what would you like to do this afternoon? Think about it, please.

-          I can’t think when I  walk.

-          Why?

-         You can't think, without your head rested on your palm.

 

Parenting advice:

-          If you keep misbehaving like this, you’ll have to go out and wait in the garden till you’ve calmed down. – I said angrily to T.

S. offered criticism and good advice:

-          Mum, you don’t know how to treat kids.

-          Don’t I? How should I treat kids then? – I showed interest, open to all good parenting advice.

-          You should be kind.

-          And I’m not? – there was just 1% of hope he’d deny, but I tried nonetheless.

-          No. – my 1% was gone. - You told T. he’ll have to stand outside, and that’s not kind. It’s cold.

-          What should I have done then, if he keeps shouting and wouldn’t listen?

-          Put a tape on his mouth. – and after a while, he added – Or earplugs in your own ears.

Stupid Cupid

-          There’s something special about you. – he looked at her face as if she was a precious work of art. – You have this… this…, I don’t know, this something in you, that not many people have. I can’t find the right word. – he  sounded very convincing, as his voice slightly trembled. - Really exceptional, I feel like we should have met long ago. It’s funny, I can’t really point to where this something is located – maybe it’s your eyes, or the way you smile? The way you blush when you’re embarrassed? Your funny accent? No, that’s not that. There’s this something. I don’t know. – gently, he followed the line of her jaw with his palm. – A parabole. A quintessence.

She looked at him in awe, feeling her freshly discovered quintessence light up inside. “I always sensed I was in some way special, but never knew it was visible”. But she said nothing. No need to put big red signs next to the most picturesque path.

Being in love is a temporary situation when someone else shares our own opinion of ourselves.

The end of the world

There is a place in Poland, on the edge of the Lublin Highland that offers views so dramatic that "the locals" (who include myself, in the summer) call it "the end of the world". It's a perfect place for wonder and contemplation, even more so if you've had the luck of being there on your own. No photo can convey the experience of standing on the edge, looking at the brook below, the fields and the flatlands, stretching till the distant mountain range, visible only at very clear skies. That mountain range on the horizon (Góry Świętokrzyskie) is a new beginning - a rare priviledge if you notice it. 

The end of the world inevitably brings to my mind the poem by Czeslaw Milosz announcing that there will be no other end of the world, but your own (http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19195). No fanfares, no spectacular disasters,  no "lightning and thunder", just a little end of the world - your own departure. Unnoticed by the general public - the universe. The poem's exquisite - but I'm not so sure as to its message. First of all, I've been deeply troubled by "Melancholia" by Lars van Triers, and secondly, there are lots of other "ends of the world", some of which can even be visited.

Last time I was there, on a hot afternoon in the beginning of May, I noticed "my" end of the world has been reserved. The path leading to the edge was decorated with a red "Nature's Reserve" sign. Signs and names do take away some of the magic. Mr. Shakespeare, sorry to disagree. The end of the world smells much sweeter than "Nature's Reserve".

All that poetry brings me to my brother, whom I adore, among others for his strong views on poetry. "Why do I have to guess now what the poet wanted to say? Why didn't he just say what he wanted to say in a straightforward manner?" I often heard him saying this when he struggled with the course in literature at his secondary school. I think I would now be able to reply to that question: "That's for the same reason why they'd better not put the "Nature's Reserve" sign at the end of the world.

Wax crayon scratch art

There’s a painting technique I remember from school, which involves first covering a sheet of paper with wax crayons, any pattern or drawing you wish, and then covering it with thick black paint (or ink). When dry, you scratch out a drawing with a sharp wooden stick, or a pen that had given up his mission long ago (i.e. a pen that doesn’t write any more). The result is neither the underlying drawing, nor the new one.  It’s a drawing that draws on the base pattern, bringing something new to life. At primary school, we usually made representations of “A city by night” in this way. But that’s just a start…

When we grow up, we apply the same technique to people. They, too, have a complex, underlying drawing underneath, which they don’t even know themselves, as it’s been painted-over. We uncover it only partially, and the result depends on how much talent we actually have. The talent to listen, to empathise, but above all – to wonder. If you apply a judgement tool (that’s a very blunt one) your drawing will probably be ugly. You may even make a hole in it, damaging the underlying design. Personally, my favourite is a moderately sharp, relatively thin plastic stick. I uncover some spots here and there, draw a few intuitive lines, and continue from there. Or I back off, discouraged or scared at what I’ve seen.

At times what I discover is of such beauty, that I’m tempted to scratch further, to see the complete picture, to know more, to understand everything - so much do I suddenly crave to know the answer. "Who are you?"

But there is a reason why the underlying design is covered in black ink. You can never remove it completely and go back to the original. There will always be ugly black traces left, and all the damage left by scratching, sometimes irreparable , even if you use the gentlest tools. If you like your drawing already, don’t try to improve it. Stop there, step back and wonder at your talent in creating people around you.

Someone else would have drawn these lines differently, someone else would have uncovered someone quite different.

That’s why we can be loved, hated or ignored at the same time by different people. But it has little to do with us.  

A Little Sadness Can Mean A Lot

Some part of me is deeply unhappy, always. There’s a part which is ecstatic, and one which is nervous, insecure and lip-biting, one which is serious and ambitious, and rushes with a laptop through the airports, cherishing the moment of belonging there, being one of them – all the normal people, the successful business(wo)men, some of whom are anything-but, though I'll never learn that for sure.There is a part which would go dancing and one which would rather stay at home. There’s one that’s always forgiving, and one that’s always mad. And they all inhabit me, a whole crowd inside my head, waking me up at nights, but never in the morning.

Walt Whitman would agree: “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes”. Even that sad part in myself, which often takes control, can be happy, which is quite difficult to explain. Being sad can be happiness, too. And the other way round. When I’m sad because something has finished, then at least I know for sure that I was happy a moment before. I was happy and now it’s official. That’s the happiness of being sad.

But now I learn there is also a part of me, a-part-ent-ly (a special word designed especially for this special occasion), which is at the same time a whole, which in turn is part of an even larger whole, so large that it is infinite, which is Oneness or Nothing, and what’s even better: you’re in it, too. This part is the most predominant (and the most suppressed in our everyday existence). It simply IS, and as I AM, I am. How is that for a sense of life? Just to BE?

Be-ing brings me to be-es. And those, in turn, bring me to honey. “Although eating honey is a very good thing to do, there is a moment before you begin to eat it which is better than when you are” (Pooh).  I suppose, the problem with being sad and unable to get out of that sadness is that you don’t see the jar of honey neither in front of you, nor in the cupboard, nor in the basement, and you can’t imagine someone else can have it for you. But if you are large, and contain multitudes, the chances are that there is a jar of honey, or at least a promise of a jar of honey, or some hope for one in one of the compartments of yourself. The tears of sadness that my pillow soaks up have the same composition as the tears that blur my vision when I revisit this scene: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qssvnjj5Moo

“There was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know that there was no reason to be afraid...ever.” (American Beauty)

Good reasons to be a woman

1)   If you commit a crime, you may end up serving your sentence in this building (Nieuwersluis Vrouwengevangenis between Loenen and Breukelen in Holland). Slight disadvantage: I suppose the view from the outside is better than from the inside, and as a prisoner, you’d probably only admire the latter most of the time. The pain may be alleviated by the fact that you could now post this picture as your new address  (coordinates: Zandpad 3, 3631NK Nieuwersluis)

2)   No need to queue to use the toilet at Hannover Messe (as majority of the visitors are men)

3)   The chances that you will one day wake up next to an ugly, fat, complaining creature who claims to be your wife, are scarce (this, however, doesn’t diminish the possibility of waking up one day next to an ugly, fat, complaining creature who claims to be your husband, so I’m not so sure how advantageous point 3) really is)

4)   You will probably earn less than a man in a comparable position, or even nothing, which will inevitably increase your creativity, especially if you’re a single parent raising 5 children, and have recently been abandoned by your husband.

5)   In Germany, you may use one of the 2 parking places reserved for women at certain parking lots along the highway. Those are usually close(r) to the toilets than other parking spaces, but in case you really need to use the toilet urgently, point 5) loses its validity (this is not Hannover Messe and you might have to queue)

6) If you happen to be a little chicken and you have just hatched from the egg, you'll stand much higher chances of survival if you're female (provided the chicken-sexer, yes, such profession really exists, will recognise that). If you're male - you're dead.

That’s about it. I wanted to make it a list of 10, but this really is all I could come up with. 

Polish Remover

At “Removers and Co.” we truly are serious about innovation. We took a simple nail polish remover, and removed one element. The nail. Suddenly, we got a brand new product, ready to be launched to satisfy the needs of the growing niche market, the not-so-much-fans-of-Polish-people. Just a few drops of our “Polish Remover” over a cotton bud, brush it gently all over the photograph or any other visual representation of a group of persons (safe to use even on your PC or TV screen)– and here we go, all the Polish are gone from the picture.

This revolutionary liquid removes all members of the not-so-much-liked, or even hated, nation in a matter of seconds. And it has an additional advantage: it detects any traces of polishness in anyone – it helps you uncover the polish roots in people who swear not to have any. You’ll be surprised how those noses, ears, arms, feet – you name it – disappear after just a brief contact with our “Enhanced Polish Remover”. Whole heads, or just parts of it, just the hair, or one third of a belly – all that is gone in an instant, ready to be used as evidence in any dispute regarding origins you may have with any extreme-right party supporter.

And we’re only just starting. The following are soon to be launched:

-          Polish Removal Spray – to be used in public areas, on live individuals. Leaves non-Polish specimen entirely unaffected and erases the not-so-much-liked from your sight. (Beware! The actual individuals do not physically disappear, so you still run a risk of bumping your forehead on their invisible back, for instance, or bumping your car into their invisible rear bumper). Bio-degradable and very efficient in use.

-   Polish Voice Block – earplugs specifically designed to filter out all the sounds of the not-so-much-appreciated language, leaving all other sounds unaffected

-   Other Selected Nations Removal products (designed specifically to remove any nation you wish out of your sight)

-   Bump-on-the-forehead caused by a not-so-much-liked nation Removal Lotion (helps you get rid of the nasty proof of a too close encounter within  a few minutes)

-       Instant Recovery Eye Drops – just one drop in each eye will recover your vision, should you wish to see the removed individuals again (e.g. in case you want to employ them to refurbish your bathroom or fix your crooked walls)

-   Tight T-shirt removal lightweight spray – versatile and handy in a 10, 50 and 100 ml containers, for any use you can imagine.

If this is still not enough, we may recommend our ground braking invention “Magic Brain Oil” – with just a few drops into each of the ears, any half-wit will turn into his/her opposite.