Big Bang or the Gang

I like to make up stories, but this one truly is true. It is about charity and altruism, and it’s also a little  bit about business, in my rabbit-sort of way. A little different.

 A baby boy, born in Russia, needed a life-saving surgery, which the Russian doctors weren’t able to carry out.  His parents were, as most parents would be, desperate. But there was a chance for him, the chance came with an 80 thousand euro price label. It was a specialised surgical procedure offered by a German hospital.

How do you collect eighty thousand euros within two months? There are two basic options: you don’t do anything, hoping for a miracle,  or you actually start doing something because miracles is nothing you can count on. And that’s what the parents of the little boy did: they involved their friends and acquaintances, they used social media and TV to get attention for their cause. One of their facebook-allies was a friend of mine.

She created a support group, and kept informing the members of the progress of the donations. She made sure all the proofs of the boy’s existence were published on the net. She involved virtually everyone she knew. When I last spoke to her, she shared some reactions people had initially:

-          You know what, I’m not taking part in such actions. I’m just not doing it. How on earth do you want to collect 80K in 2 months? Sorry, for me it just doesn’t make sense.
-          What if they don’t raise all the money before the deadline? I don’t want my money to be wasted.
-          I don’t need to donate, because you did already, didn’t you?
-          Come on, do you really believe in that story? 80K euro needed on a bank account in Russia??? How can you be so naïve?
-          This is only one boy saved. But there are many more, so when will you stop?
-          I might donate some money, because I trust you. But how do you want strangers to wire money over to Russia of all places on earth?

Obviously, that wasn’t too encouraging. Utopia, you’d say.

What’s surprising though, is that money kept streaming in. One anonymous person even made a transfer of ten thousand euros. Two days before the deadline, there were only twenty-five thousand euro missing. That’s a lot, I know. But that also means that there were enough kind-hearted and naïve people to raise 65K euros to save the life of an unknown kid.

And that fills me with hope for the mankind. And makes me prefer naive people to realists. Sorry.

I’m reading a management book right now (I know someone who’d be very happy to hear that). It contains a quote by W.N. Murray from the Scottish Himalayan Expedition:

“Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too.

All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred.  A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favour all manner of unforeseen events, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come this way.”

(quote after Sahar Hashemi “Switched On”)

Just one day before the deadline the boy's parents were contacted by a charity organisation, who offered to cover the remaining amount needed for the surgery. Providence!

All acts of inititiative (and creation). I like that. That brings me to the most spectacular creation I’ve ever heard of:

In the beginning there was nothing, and out of this nothing, probably through some Big Bang or a revolt of a Big Gang, Something got created. If there existed some creatures able to understand speech before the Bang (or the Gang), and you told them the following (if you existed, of course, but we all know you didn’t, which nevertheless shouldn’t stop you from imagining such conversation now, as now you do exist):

-          You know what I see happening in the future? There’ll be this Something appearing out of Nothing, and this will kick-off a grand series of events which will at some point lead to intelligent beings collecting an enormous amount of money to save a little intelligent being’s life. Can you believe it?

Their answer would probably be:
-          Come on, what kind of management guru told you that? This is complete utopia. It can’t possibly happen.

Well, it did. So please don’t tell me I shouldn’t believe in Utopias. Had it not been for an Utopia, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, in your office, at your desk.

Tommy becomes Pippi's boss and what happens next

All little boys who ever heard of Pippi adore and admire her. She can lift a horse, lives on her own, her imagination knows no limits and she’s so deliciously disobedient. Controversial, provocative, genuine. Different. Accepting no roles the society tries to ascribe to her. Not afraid of anything and anyone. Generous. Kind-hearted and loving. Hilarious.

Those boys grow up and they meet someone who reminds them of Pippi. Someone who refuses to stay at home and make home-making her only job. They meet this independent spirit, and, instead of adoring and admiring her, they are afraid. And when people are afraid, what they do is try to control the object of their fear.

For her own good they will try to make Pippi understand that it’s in her interest to fit in. Be polite. Follow the rules, not challenge them. Bear children, iron shirts, cook meals. Accept to earn less than Tommy. Talk about fashion with Annika. “ I mean, Pippi, be reasonable:  time goes by, and we have a family to support. You just need to settle down.”

All little girls who ever heard of Pippi want to become like her. Independent and courageous. Questioning the status quo. They are all smiles when they hear this conversation between Pippi and the old rich Miss Rosenbloom:

“’Pay attention girl,’ she said at last. ‘I want you to tell me how you spell “seasick”.’
‘With the greatest of pleasure,’ said Pippi. ‘S-e-e-s-i-k.’
Miss Rosenbloom smiled sarcastically.
‘Oh’, she said, ‘the spelling book has different ideas’.
‘It’s jolly lucky, then, that you asked me how I spell it’, said Pippi. ‘S-e-e-s-i-k’, that’s the ways I’ve always spelt it and it never did me any harm’. (…)
‘Make a note of it,’ said Miss Rosenbloom to the secretaries. Her mouth was set in a thin line.
‘Yes, do,’ said Pippi. ‘Take down this extra good spelling, and make sure it’s put into the spelling book as soon as possible.’
‘Well now, my girl,’ said Miss Rosenbloom. ‘Tell me this. When did Charles I die?’
‘Oh, dear me!’ exclaimed Pippi. ‘Is he dead now? It makes you so sad to think of how many people pop off nowadays. And I’m quite sure it need never have happened if only he’d changed his shoes when they got wet.’’ (quote after Google Books, http://books.google.nl/books?id=hf8O0X5GieIC&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q=rosembloom&f=false)

Both Tommy and Annika were so proud of her on that day! How she’d outwitted the old spinster, rewarding the children who were dismissed by Miss Rosenbloom for their cluelessness.

Grown-up Pippi and Tommy, who has in the meantime become her boss (and not the other way round: I suspect it's due to Tommy's wearing his hair neatly combed to one side from his early years. What you have on your head, will sooner or later get into it), and has obviously forgotten all admiration he had for Pippi when they were young, will have quite a different  conversation instead:

‘Pay attention, Miss Langstrumpf,’ he said at last. ‘I want you to tell me how you’ve come up with 2 million instead of 2 thousand, and how we’re going to make sure it’s not going to happen again.’
‘With the greatest of pleasure’, said Pippi. ‘I thought: it’s Christmas, people deserve some good news. 2 million would make them much happier than 2 thousand, so I added a few more zeros. Zero is nothing, so you might also say I added nothing. Nothing happened, really. But the sales force was very content with their results, so I think we may conclude that it was great success with little effort’.
‘Only these were not their results’ Mr. Settergren exclaimed. ‘If the controller hadn’t noticed that, we would have had to pay them all extremely high bonuses. Do you at all realise what you’ve done?’
‘Nothing. As I said previously, nothing. I added a few nothings to the amount. To make them happy for Christmas’
‘And make the company bankrupt!’ – he was in total rage by now. – ‘Have you had maths at all?’
‘Yes, I remember having some. Many even. One day, I open my closet, and what I see is a whole swarm of moths flying out. They were eating up my wardrobe, can you imagine? Nasty bastards.’
‘Mind your language, Miss Langstrumpf. ‘Next time I hear a word like this from your mouth, and you’re fired! I mean it! Now I really mean it, it’s been enough!’

They say the books children love in childhood will form them as adults. Sadly, in most cases this is only wishful thinking.  Don't get me wrong - what I'm supporting here is not creative accounting, but sheer sense of humour! But tall Tommies have short memories.

From Lisbon with Love

I dislike categorisations of any kind, as they are lazy: the only thing they do all the time is categorise. Simplify. Make their lives easier. Divide, box, package wrap, ship away and quickly move to the next topic.  My weakness is that I don’t like getting rid of things which are covered with words. Even throwing away an old newspaper can be a painful task. I tend to get tenderly  attached to anything that potentially carries a message.

Now you’ll understand why I have problems parting with people. They are a perpetual source of inspiration, they carry letters, words and punctuation marks in languages I often don’t understand. Who would like to have their inspiration boxed and shipped thousands of kilometers away? I’d like to put them in my pockets, or hang as a penchant on my neck and never to have to rid of them again.  

Now I’m a bit angry that it’s not possible, although I do understand, yes, of course I do. You can’t live your life without departures and separations. Understanding doesn’t stop me from being angry though. And as I’ve just been forced to get rid of a few incredible people I met, I’ll now try and get rid of my anger, voluntarily.

I’ll box those unique individuals. Wrap them and ship them, away from me. So that I can forget how real they were, so that I don’t feel the sorrow, the pain, the distress of missing them, the vital ingredients of my life.

I’m going to the warehouse now where I’ll  start sorting them right away. I’ve found two suitable boxes already. A few more minutes, and off they go.

The first category is people who are like prose. They talk a lot, they instantly establish contact with strangers. You like them instantly, too. They are cheerful, they tell you their stories which you believe.  They try to expulse all their meaning to the outside within the shortest possible time. After an hour with them, you feel you’ve known them for long.  They are like prose, as they seem to carry little hidden meaning in themselves.

The second category is people who are like poetry. These can be difficult to decipher, and their text is subject to interpretation. Their meaning fluctuates, depending on the recipient.  They can be moody, grumpy or plain sad, content,  exhilarated or mad. They are not the same to everyone. They require more effort, and you can’t possibly feel you know them even after a week together. They are like in Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of grass”: they contradict themselves as they contain multitudes.

Now, I’m sure the “prose” people contain multitudes, too. The thing is: they choose one of those multitudes -  the one they feel represents them the most. This is what they expulse to the surface. Like a volcano ejects its ashes.

The “poetry” kind doesn’t feel that need. Those are much more subtle, they don't usually impose their presence. I suppose they themselves don’t know too well who they are, which for me is fair enough. I like them, because they leave room for imagination. And mine needs a lot of space.

As those two boxes with some dear ones have been prepared for shipment, I proceed to deal with the remaining portion of my people-stock. The problem is – I can’t find the right box. They are neither poetry, nor prose. When I met them, I tried deciphering them as if they belonged into a known category. And this is where I stumbled.

They don’t expulse anything, they don’t invite you to read between the lines. They don’t even have lines. They are no books of poetry or prose –  they aren’t books at all. There’s no way you can possibly open them. Don’t even try – your paper knife will cut your skin, leaving no scratch on theirs. The only safe guess about them is that they are, I guess. That’s it.

I stopped here. I shipped my books of poetry and prose to their destinations, hoping to see them again in a year or two. What I’m left with are those who simply are, unboxed, unlabeled, here in front of me on the conveyor belt. I look at them, and I’m both mad and happy.  I don’t know what to do with them, because I neither know which box they belong in, nor which address I should put on the label. Therefore, I can’t possibly ship them anywhere. They’ll stay here with me,  populating the pockets of my brain, growing there like yeast.  But I know whatever I'll make of them isn’t true, it's only a product of my mind.

But the source – the true “them” remains unopened, uncut, unread and unresolved. The only thing I know about them is that they exist. So deliciously consistent in their being. They just are, all the time. My tower of Babel, my Big Bang and my Higg’s field. Mine and never mine - never mind. They are.

Middlesex, or in the middle of an airplane

She had small, dark, intriguing eyes of  someone endowed with strong personality.  The nose of just the right size, fine cheekbones and cute lips – I’ve seen such lips in Romania before, but not in Germany. The French have nice lips too, but in a different way. French lips are muscled – that’s from years of pronouncing their vowels, but not always of a nice shape. Sometimes they are just full, that’s it.  The French lips are full of vowels, but hers weren’t. Her language was full of consonants. And her lips -  full of character, but rather child-like in their size.

She finished her first bottle of red wine (it may sound big, but you know, this was one of the airplane-size-wines), which gently stained her lips. When the stewardess asked her “Would you like some coffee or tea?” she simply ordered another bottle. I wanted to start a conversation with her, because she reminded me of someone. I couldn’t remember directly of whom, but that must have been someone I liked. My brain automatically associated this type of eyes with goodness. It’s funny how that works. She might just as well be a very nasty person, but I assumed she wasn’t because she reminded me of someone else, someone indefinite but definitely good.

-          You’ll get completely drunk before the plane lands. – I said, and immediately thought I might have sounded patronizing, without having the intention.
-          No, it’s just that the flight goes much quicker in this way. And I still have a long way to go. – she explained, composed, showing no emotion.

And instead of getting drunk before the plane lands, we just continued the conversation. She had an easiness of talking, her words flew swiftly, and while she spoke I looked at her eyes and followed the movement of her lips.

If I was a man, I would have been enchanted, because this girl was out of the ordinary.  She was subtle, intelligent and calm. Her beauty was not dazzling, but one that gets to you gradually. First there were the eyes, then the lips, then the elegant shape of her face, framed with hazel hair. Her personality wasn’t flashy either: everything she said sounded reasonable, but she was out of the ordinary in her calm, composed manner. In her slight accent and intriguing intonation in English. Maybe that’s the reason she sounded calm, as her phrases didn’t raise with enthusiasm or fall with doubt. She wasn’t excessive in her gestures, she was a kind of girl that you’d really like to have as a flight companion: not imposing their presence, but eager to talk when invited. I remember the advice a colleague of mine gave me just the day before : “Listen more than you speak” and wondered if I wasn’t overwhelming her with my questions.

I wanted to tell her she was beautiful, clever and interesting. If she was a man, she would have taken it as an invitation to have sex (see book “What men think about when they don’t think about sex” – such book really exists, but its pages are blank). Fortunately she wasn’t, and the only thing our conversation had to do with sex was that she’d read “Middlesex” by Jeffrey Eugenides, and strongly recommended it to me.

Before I left the plane she reminded me, without knowing that of course, whose eyes these were. She introduced herself. She had the same name as my school girlfriend, a very kind-hearted spirit.

I didn’t tell it to her then, but I’m doing it now “You’re beautiful, clever and interesting. I’ll certainly read that book.”

 

Hedgehog girl

It was on a bus that I first saw her. She was sitting with her legs curled up, her arms around her knees, her head resting on them in such a way that her long hair covered her face. She might have been sleeping, or maybe just pretending, to keep intruders away.

She was like a hedgehog, her position said: “do not dare approach me, or I’ll prick”. I’m sure she took the aisle seat on purpose, so that nobody attempts to sit next to her and start a chat. She was in her own world, and wanted to be left alone.

It was like a school trip, only we were all grown-ups. Everybody else was talking, browsing the internet, checking their mail or listening to music.  She wasn’t doing any of it. She seemed hostile, or scared. Or both, as at a closer look hostility is just hidden fear.

I wanted to approach her despite all that, because I sensed she was someone good. I even made the first few steps, I left my comfortable seat next to my work-colleague and went down the aisle, towards the row where she was sitting. But I stopped about a meter away from her. She lifted her face for a fraction of a second, looked at me, and quickly turned away. It was a brief moment, but long enough to notice that her eyes were red. I turned back, slowly, as if not to scare a wild animal, and returned to my seat.

When we left the bus, and were all walking towards the Oceanarium, I made sure I levelled with her. And then I did it. I put my arm on her shoulder and asked:

-          Are you sure everything’s alright?
-          Yeah, I’m absolutely fine. No problem whatsoever. – she said with an artificial smile on her face and gently, but firmly removed my arm from hers.
-          But your eyes…?
-          What’s wrong with them?
-          They’re red. I thought something was the matter, and I’d like to help, if I can, at all, I mean, if you’d like me to – I stammered, suddenly losing my confidence.
-          I’m wearing lenses, and the air-conditioning on the bus was disastrous to my eyes. – she looked straight into mine when she answered - And I didn’t get much sleep the night before. But thanks for asking. – she added, and speeded up, so as to show me she wasn’t looking forward to any company.  

And there I was, standing in front of the building, alone, while everybody else was getting inside. I didn’t feel like joining them anymore. I felt like sitting down on a bench, taking out a sheet of paper and putting her down. I wanted to start like this “She sat on the bus, all curled up, like a hedgehog”.

And now I have the beginning of the story, but I'm missing the rest. I could make it up, of course, as I’m a Witch, and Witches are not bound by any rules, especially not the stick-to-the-truth ones.

But you’ve been thinking the narrator was a guy, weren’t you?

No, not a guy. It was me. A very curious Witch. I’m not going to make up the rest of a story, because that’s the whole point about my hedgehog girl – she doesn’t want to be seen through. She’s good this way, leaving so much room for imagination. I’ll leave her the way she is. With her hair slightly tangled by the wind, walking away swiftly on her high-heeled shoes towards the Oceanarium building. You'll meet her there, if you want. But from there on it will become your story. Not mine.

ASSertive

-          You should be more assertive.
-          Yes, I know. – I answer, feeling like a fiasco.
-          So why don’t you just act like you know you should? Just say “no” if you don’t feel like doing it.
-          I don’t want to hurt people’s feelings.
-          Oh, come on, don’t be pathetic. “Hurt people’s feelings”! If everyone cared about hurting other people, we would stop doing anything at all. Just live your life, as you want it to be, and stop caring about others.
-          But whenever I say “no” I am so sorry and ashamed, that I even prefer to do the thing that doesn’t really fit in my agenda. At least I won’t feel guilty in the end.
-          Don’t you feel guilty about not taking proper care of your own needs?
-          No, it never felt this way.

-          Gosh, you’ll really need to do something about it. Otherwise people will take advantage of you. Go to a course, learn to be assertive, to set clear boundaries… You only have one life.
-          Yes, maybe I should – I did it again: agree with something I disagree with, not to hurt someone’s feelings. Otherwise, the conversation would continue like this:
-          No, I’m not going to do it. I’m happy the way it is now.
-          Well, that’s your choice, if you prefer to rather satisfy others than yourself… But you’ll regret it soon.
-          No, I won’t. I haven’t regretted it so far.
-          What are you talking about? How about going to that concert, while everyone knows you hate concerts, just to please him? Ending up all stressed out and panicked, searching for an emergency exit while everyone else was enjoying themselves?
-          No, I liked that. I liked the moment I panicked and thought I was about to die. It brought me closer to myself.
-          You’re freaking out.  You should really seek help.
-          I don’t think so. I’m happy the way things are. I’m happy I survived the concert, and even danced towards the end, after my attack was over.
-          You’re saying this now, but back then I’m sure you wished you hadn’t accepted that invitation.
-          How can you be so sure?
-          I know you a little better than you think.
-          No you don’t.

That’s where being consistently assertive means in my case. I hate it. I guess I need a course first which would teach me to like the whole attitude hiding under such a funny name. I hate to hear a “no”, that’s why, in a pathetically empathetic way, I prefer to avoid saying it myself. Just in case someone else didn’t like it either. Along with lacking in assertiveness, I’m also full of other faults. Which makes me quite a likeable rabbit-creature. Nobody likes to find perfection in others.

By the way, as I’m linguistically obsessed: I can’t help thinking the whole word “assertive” was inspired by another word starting with its first three letters, and ending with the ending of my address (the part following after “Rabbit”, for those that haven’t guessed). I don’t know where the “ertive” comes from, though. At first sight it makes me think of a hereditary ailment, somehow. Which rather is good news for my offspring – they’ll be so sweetly and pathetically compassionate, I hope. The way I love it.

Facebook, transitive

facebook – verb

1.       [transitive] to slap someone in the face using a book rather than a palm:

  She facebooked him after she’d overheard his phone conversation.

2.       [transitive] to choose someone out of a larger group exclusively on the basis of his/her appearance, without meeting the person in person:

For the fair, we have carefully facebooked three attractive hostesses.

        Our agency specialises in facebooking services worldwide.

3.       [transitive] to promote a book by using a known person’s testimonial, to endorse, especially using the close-up of the endorsing person’s face:

If we manage to convince him to facebook Brian’s debut, the sales figures will certainly soar.

4.       [transitive] specialised usage

to lay down with one’s face covered with an open book, especially to isolate oneself from outside world:

The first sign of his burnout was that he facebooked with a volume of Longman dictionary on the couch all days.

This is a fake dictionary entry, of course. Everyone knows that the word means something very different, though spending whole days facebooking might still come close to meaning no.4 above. But if the word „facebook” wasn't reserved yet, I would have created it. First of all, I would make it a verb. Then, I’d add a noun, meaning:

1.       A particular kind of a slap in the face.
2.       An act of choosing based exclusively on someone’s looks, especially the face.
3.       Endorsement of a book by a celebrity, showing his/her face.
4.       A person lying down with a book covering his face, often suffering from a psychological disorder.

Next, there would be an adjective “facebookish” and "facebookable" (=attractive) and an adverb “facebookishly”. These are very nice words, as they sound very bookish.

“He’s quite facebookish” – meaning that particular “he” has a tendency to facebook people (sense 2. above).

“She turned down his proposal quite facebookishly – he came back home badly bruised.” (sense 1.) “Honey, I’ve facebooked you already a while ago, and couldn’t wait till we meet in person.” (sense 2.)

And I could facebook my blog (sense 3. above) if only my rabbit face was a bit more facebookable (sense 2.)