Sikh-ing Dil

I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I need to be.

- Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji

A few weeks ago at an international gathering I met a guy who cracked me up: a self-confident young man with an irresistible British accent, a long nose, gorgeous smile and light brown skin. He is full of energy and wit and he looks like a skillful womanizer, though he says he only enjoys the challenge of getting a telephone number. 

The hours spent with him and his friends in a few occasions were so pleasant that I was looking forward to seeing him again at a party on Saturday. He had given me his card and mobile number last time, but with a guy like that, I thought, if you in fact use that number, you´re like yesterday´s bread. So I never did.

His way of talking to people and flirting with girls together with his attitude and self-confidence craved into my mind the idea that he is some kind of hipster from an alternative London district. Therefore the omni-present beanie on his head despite the hot temperature of the overcrowded bar, I thought.

As a teenager I had a boyfriend who never (never!) took off his baseball cap. Not even as we were plunging in his swimming pool. So this British youngster wearing a beanie made me curious and, as he came to me the other night (probably while hopping from one woman to the other) I asked him to show me his hair. “I can´t. It´s long”, he replied. My hair is long too, not a reason to hide it, I thought. And then he added "I am Sikh", taking off his beanie and revealing another cotton cap, protecting his hair.  Millions of questions corwded my mind within 20 seconds but it was definitely not the best location for a philosophical talk. We then agreed to meet the day after and I let him go back to his flirt-marathon while I went on talking to my cool Tartar friend. As I left, he was dancing quite closely to a Romanian girl. Pretty, by the way. Good choice. 

The next evening started with him coming late - very late - (he had fallen asleep) to the appointment and, on top of the delay, having trouble finding the agreed meeting point. I normally get so pissed off by disorganization that I was really tempted to blow everything off and go home, but eventually we manage to meet. Or at least I think we did, for the young man standing before me me looked exactly like the one I had met a few times before. But he was also another person. Much shier, not so fresh and bold. During the evening, his attempt to concisely explain to me his "religion" ("I don´t like to call it religion") was more than a little confused but his tone of voice and the way he tried to express his ideas struck me: it was full of respect and...feeling. Just charming.

My British friend was my first contact to Sikhism (but not the last: sounds like something I am going to further explore, let alone out of curiosity) 
My sikhy friend. A funny, witty (sham?) gangster womanizer. 
Sometimes. 

Tschüß

DumboDreaming

I dreamt of Dumbo, last night.

Or, actually, I dreamt I had a cute little baby elephant that everyone adored and even my bank consultant wanted to take a picture with.

And since last night I could not fall asleep, torn by the dilemma whether or not to accept the offer to move into a new flat abandoning the one I have shared with friends for 7 years, I decided this morning that the adorable baby elephant that eventually made it into my dreams was Dumbo, encouraging me to hold my feather tight and…fly. With no fear.

So it looks like I am probably moving into a new place, my place!, in January. 

Clap clap and thanks, Dumbo.  

Tiny beautiful things

I have the impression that the quest for happiness becomes more and more complex as years go by. Adults (me, jaw-dropped, in the first row) are mesmerized by the capacity of kids to find the most common things whimsical and magnetically fascinating and I have heard many parents proclaiming what a bewildering experience it is to re-discover the world through the eyes of their offspring. No breaking news for sure, rather a trite consideration that has found in the past centuries revered voices, for instance that of William Blake, who urged us to rediscover the child within ourselves.

I have stopped being a child many years ago and I don´t have toddlers running around chasing ants or talking eloquently to a potato chip, so basically it seems like I am doomed to be a quite rational grown-up, nailed to the idea of life as I decided to regard it. Yet, last night I was playing tennis (very generous definition of my attempt) with three friends of mine in a poorly lit indoor court and there I was, my knees slightly bent, holding my racket tight, looking at my Indian friend across the net smiling his gorgeous, elegant smile while getting ready to serve. And suddenly it started raining and the ball was flying over the net in very creative twirls and my Canadian friend was doing her funny jump-serves and my London mate was running wildly around the court yelling “Mine! Yours! No, no, mine!” and that rain…the rain kept tapping tenaciously on the plastic roof, producing a warm, reassuring music, transforming those apparently meaningless bunch of minutes into…pure bliss. 

purple rain

collections and recollections

I have a friend who is a deltiologist. If you are of average intelligence like me, you probably don´t know what a deltiologist is, like I did until a few weeks ago, when a definition question came up during the Monday Pub Quiz and this incredibly smart and cultivated man, being one, obviously knew the answer: “How do you call someone who collects postcards?” 

A deltiologist.

Though the vision of any kind of collection gives me a sense of smothering and I doubt I´ll ever start one, I find the idea of boxes and boxes of postcards (as long as in someone else´s home) romantic and enthralling. It surely has to do with the “object of desire” itself, for I am one of the few remaining people that loves to send and receive real letters and who still sends postcards who are actually physically carried by a mailman. Quite sad – though somehow understandable – that the new technologies are killing older epistolary traditions but indeed I had to acknowledge that “times they are a-changin´” when in a post office in a southern European country, last year, I had to wait over 15 minutes for the clerk to go dig, in some dusty back office, some postcard-suitable stamps. Had I asked him to please bring me some tea and Parisian macarons, it would have been easier, I reckon.

Finding out that this friend of mine is a passionate deltiologist was for me delightful, for it gave me a chance to…send postcards! And not only once or twice a year from some exotic holiday venue to some friends who would open their mailbox and look at this rectangular piece of paper with baffled surprise, No no! I could send nearly every week a postcard to a man who would open his mailbox, smile his little oh-so-mannered British smile and then climb the stairs to his flat wondering in what box my postcard would better fit.

I don´t always send the best postcards, and sometimes I play the ninny by sending the most kitschy postcards I can find. One of my favorites was from a former military and now low-cost airport in the middle of nowhere. The layout, the graphic and the picture were so appalling, that I was almost ashamed as I handed it to the cashier to pay. The postcard was so ugly, it literally made me laugh.

Today´s postcard to my deltiologist friend is an old one which has been sitting, lonely and bored, in a drawer for years. It´s a postcard depicting a glass door of the Casa Battló in Barcelona. I have been to that splendid city only once and only for a handful of days. I remember I was happy. I remember strolling down the Ramblas with a light heart. I remember standing in front of the Sagrada Familia with unexpected and overwhelming bewilderment. I remember secret codes, cheerful nights, carefree days, full of energy and hope. I remember walking on the top of the Casa Battló and thinking “I am in a fairy tale and this roof is a benevolent dragon!”. I remember leafing through the guest book and reading, with a full heart, “we are here, and we are in love”.

I would have never imagined that deltiology would indirectly carry me to sunny, lively Catalan streets on a dreary September afternoon. Pleasant surprise indeed. 

savoir baiser

Some time ago I kissed a boy. To me, he was really just a boy though, in fact, for the society, a full grown up man. What can I say? Every male who is more than 4 years younger than me, to me, is a boy.

The boy and I inhabit different planets: he belongs to the skaters sub-culture, dropped out of college because “he makes his videos anyway, what could they possibly teach him at school?” and we have so little in common that it´s for me still quite inexplicable that we reciprocally found us funny and kind of liked each other. 

Fact is that the boy is, in a very uncommon way, sweet and pretty fascinating in his slightly arrogant yet somehow low key self-confidence. He loves to flirt and he seems to have a natural talent for that. 

Doubtlessly, he has a talent for  kissing. So, a late summer evening some weeks ago, this silly red fruit inexplicably found herself in a park, with the sun setting, kissing this boy.

For hours.

Nothing more and nothing less.

One beautiful and somehow forgotten pleasure; it was like being 14 again, blissfully enjoying the moment without thinking of any potential evolution of the situation. Since there wasn´t any possible evolution of the situation. 

Today I was thinking of the Synagogue in my town and I remembered that it was in front of that building that I met the boy the first time. And it made me think of the evening at the park. Though I will quite probably never see the boy again, the recollection made me smile, like a dreamy teenie. 

So, boys and men of the planet, I have a little suggestion: never, ever ever ever underevaluate the importance of the tiny, dazzling, simple things in life. 

And the importance of learning thoroughly - and never unlearn - to kiss well.  

the art of writing

I stole this picture from the web. It was in an article about an abandoned, decaying mental hospital around NY.

I fell in love with the shot, the shape and light balance, the soft, dusty colors; it´s almost as if I could reach out my hand and scratch the peeling walls, breathing in the dump air of the solitary place and hearing the echo of the clicking typewriters.

So sorry not to be able to give credit to the author of this picture. But thank you, for your art.

Visual Poetry

When aesthetic pervades, even the most unfamiliar topic becomes incredibly fascinating. 
Thanks Wong Kar Wai, for a beautiful evening. 

   

“Remember when I told you that there is nothing to regret in life? 

It's all bullshit. If life had no regrets it would be really boring”.

“No news is news”.

Letters to Milena

"I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. Basically it is nothing other than this fear we have so often talked about, but fear spread to everything, fear of the greatest as of the smallest, fear, paralyzing fear of pronouncing a word, although this fear may not only be fear but also a longing for something greater than all that is fearful"

Franz Kafka - Letters to Milena 

Bauchgefühl, are you real or just a crazy bitch?

Sometimes I wish I could hit the fast-forward button. Obviously if I could then press the rewind button shortly after: I am not eager to become old instantly or dying to see how I will look in my 50s, 60s or 80s (if I ever get there, after all it´s not guaranteed). I am just sometimes puzzled by my feelings about other people´s choices and would love to see, without having to wait a decade or two, if my “Bauchgefühl” is right or if it´s totally messed up, which could even lead to make me look like I am being a jealous moralist spinster instead.

When we observe the lives of people around us we have a somehow privileged viewpoint: we are somehow detached (or at least generally more detached than them) not carried away by the incontrollable stream of passion (it´s not our life, chill out, no big deal!) and we spot right away the nice little hints that reveal the real “underground” motivations of those choices, which sometimes are not that healthy and could lead to a sudden crash. Much later, obviously, but still. They are the same little hints that we so very skillfully “oversee” (aka totally ignore) when it´s us, that we are talking about.

Lately I cannot help but being, if not disappointed (that sounds way too hard, doesn´t it?) at least a little puzzled about some choices of good friends of mine. There seems to be a sort of magical planetary influence, lately, because big changes are taking place in my circle of friends and, when they drop those news-bombs, I really, really have to control my facial muscles as to not let that eyebrow immediately rise in an explosion of pure, unfiltered skepticism.

In the past years I have been told several times that it´s good to trust your gut feeling, your “sixth sense”. Though thinking that it was a splendid suggestion, I first had the proof that it was also one to follow when I went out with a guy that I had met at a party and had already seemed to me a little weird. I had felt that there was something odd, yet as the guy sent me an email that night (through a group-website of which we both were members: I had not given my address to him directly) asking in the most mannered way if I wanted to have a drink with him, instead of listening to that little voice that kept saying “no, no, find an excuse, say no” I mentally scolded myself with a snappy “now, don´t be bitchy. He might be a little strange but he is also kind, he asked you out, what´s the problem?!”. The problem was that the guy is mentally disturbed, as it later turned out. And though I was lucky enough to get back home in one piece that night (for a few seconds I had doubts about that) I did end up experiencing one of the most unpleasant nights of my life. Ignoring my instinct was not smart, now I know. Yet back then it was somehow hard to believe that my stomach had superpowers that my brains did not have. Learning by doing, I then decided to tattoo the claim “Listen to your Bauchgefühl!” on my cerebral cortex.

Now, what does a bad date have to do with my friends’ life choices? Nothing, for sure. Only I am wondering if my sixth sense is merely auto referential or if it works also with those decisions of thirds which make me feel strange, which I find a little…hazardous. 

I remember being doubtful about a pregnancy in a shaky marriage. The child was not even 2 when the marriage imploded. I had a pretty strange feeling at a wedding where I nevertheless was moved to tears and that also turned into a very complicated and pretty unhappy situation shortly after.

Now I witness a friend perpetrating her well known scheme of long-distance-high-complex-factor relationship, a second one conducting her life as a driving learner at her first lesson with a stoned teacher sitting beside just laughing hysterically (foot on the accelerator pedal – down on the brake – panic - oh, speed is actually nice - foot heavy on the accelerator again - but maybe it´s scary - full brake again - no no, accelerator, now and 1000 miles per hours, whatever!!) and a third couple with a remarkable age difference exchanging unofficial vows of eternal love only a few weeks into their new-born lovestory.

I honestly still don´t understand if I am just being jealous of their happiness or if I just want to protect my friends from situations that in the rational corner of my brain are banging loudly on the bell with the big red sign “d-a-n-g-e-r!”.

But in the end, what do I know? I live in such a perpetual status-quo that maybe my “third party Bauchgefühl” comes only from my fear of changes. And who am I to judge, who am I to know? Nobody. I don´t know anything, in the end.

Time will tell, and since there´s no fast forward button (thankfully), we all just have to wait and see.

radical generosity

Stories: the only thing we’ve got, the arbiters of this human process of rocketing between hope and despair, and it’s why every person’s is vitally important. It’s why it doesn’t matter if you’re a mess, or put together, or even a success according to arbitrary standards; what matters is that you are conscious of the world around you, in all of its terrible beauty.

[…]

The world can be a horrible place at times, but we don’t have to participate in this, we don’t have to harden our hearts as we’re taught and told to do, in order to survive or be sexy or attractive lovers or perfect parents or interesting people. We do not have to make ourselves into mysterious gifts, waiting to be chosen or read or understood by those who will earn us, unwrap our secrets, and then what? We can be something more authentic, and speak from a different place, a different planet. This is why I like being a writer, because what it demands is both simple and incredibly hard. To be a human being. Does anyone even know what that means anymore? Why don’t we allow for mess? Why are we so afraid of it? What do we expect from the veils we pull down over our eyes, our minds, our hearts? How can we possibly connect if we never let people see what we truly are and what it would take to make us free? Now, when I can’t fake a single emotion I don’t feel (or at least not for long), I wonder how I’ve lived this long being any other way. Maybe it’s that I haven’t really been living, and that now I am like Adam, like Eve, my feet still wet from being newly created, awkwardly learning how to walk on dry land.

[…]

What does it mean to be human, at this time, in this country? I believe it means practicing a radical generosity and empathy, especially when it’s a struggle. You must look around in the soft darkness of your waking life, which is the partner of your dream life. You must understand that accompanying you always is your animal, primal, complicated, desire-driven, calm but desperate, brutal and brilliant self, blinking and breathing gently in the dark, waiting for you to let it into the light.

Beautiful words by Emily Rapp

thank you

"the moment I let go of it, was the moment I got more than I could handle

the moment I jumped off of it, was the moment I touched down"

All Good

On the road again

How many visions fit in a handful of days?

 

 

defining limits

I must have missed class when these terms were taught:

patience

Pronunciation: /peɪʃ(ə)ns/

noun 

the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, problems, or suffering without becoming annoyed or anxious

willingness

noun

the quality or state of being prepared to do something; readiness:

wait

Pronunciation: /weɪt/

noun

stay where one is or delay action until a particular time or event.

But I was definitely there and particularly focused as this one came up:

proactive

Pronunciation: /prəʊˈaktɪv/

adjective

(of a person or action) creating or controlling a situation rather than just responding to it after it has happened.

I AM GOING TO TAKE PRIVATE LESSONS. 

ecce homo

I know what barbecue they grill their meat on. What shirt, shoes and watch they wear. I know what nanny they hire to look after their children, how their homes look like, what sports they practice and what phone they have in their pockets. I know where they go exercise, what books they (don´t ?) read, what their favorite conversational topics are and what wine they drink while holding those conversations. And, obviously, I know what party they vote for.

Or do I just think I know?

Are wealthy people more predictable than non-so-wealthy men and women? Or am I just a prejudicial, superficial Censorious Sapiens that puts all and everyone into a box?

Considering my huge, innate and still quite inexplicable passion for boxes it could be in fact my need to give an order to the world surrounding me that makes me think to know “the rich”. Or maybe, quite dully, just fear of not being able to keep up. Mixed, I have to admit, with a dash of silent arrogance (“Yeah, they have money but me, I...”)

This dilemma has been tumbling in my brains in the past hours and I somehow I feel ready to abandon my “self-reassuring biases”. I think I am actually eager to do that.

Because I want to laser-cancel this idea -tattooed in my mind- that only humble people who went through struggles in life are the real profound thinkers. Those are the ones I know and highly appreciate. I will value them, their stories and inspiration as I did so far. But I am starting to recognize my mistake: looking at “the rich” and not seeing them. Not even trying. I let their barbecues, their shirts, shoes and watches, their sports, phones and homes speak to me. I should know better. There´s another voice I should be listening to. How can I accuse “the rich” of being shallow when I judge them in the most superficial way?

They are men and women, and kids. No different than me.

I like to think that there is a reason why we stumble upon people. Now I think I know why the sleek, young golfer.   

positive addicted

I found out there are phases in which one is simply...happy.
Easy to get addicted to that.

and in the end, it does come

courtesy of bro

fragile trembling leaves

Spring is not spring, this year. The buds on the trees are eager to blossom but the rigid temperatures are spitefully putting off the enchantment of the rising season. All is grey, cold, soggy.
It will come, everybody thinks, another day or two, maybe a week, but it must finally come, this spring so much longed for. I need it. We need it.
Actually, some may need it more than others. 
Two days ago I finished reading a wonderful, fierce, powerful book, a "yes book", books that change you and your view of life and of the world. 
The still point of the turning world, by Emily Rapp, is a work poured out of the depth of an aching and profound soul. 
It´s a tribute to the life of a terminally ill baby who died just before turning three. It´s the narration of a myth, as the author so eloquently explains. It´s a beautiful, beautiful book. 
While reading through those powerful pages I felt at traits like a voyeur, so intimate was the glance that the reader was allowed to throw into this unfortunate family life. So intense the empathy arisen. I often thought of a friend of mine and his son, who is also affected by an incurable and degenerative disease.
How unfortunate, how unfair, we all think in these cases. But pain, disgrace, diseases are so damned democratic: they just hit anyone, no matter how good or bad you are. I once read on social media a cynical yet funny statement: finding unfair that bad things happen to good people is like expecting a lion not to devour you because you are vegetarian.
And this is what happened to a dear colleague of mine: devoured by the lion, even though she is vegetarian, lovely, calm, intelligent, beautiful, inspiring, strong. Two days ago she comes into my office, asked how my Easter vacation was. Very good, thanks, and yours? She bursts into tears, right there, standing in front of my desk. I´m sorry, she says, sobbing, her voice full of sorrow and fear. I have Parkinson. What? Fuck! What? It can´t be! What the fuck, I screamed within myself, in a rush of disbelief and rage. And a blank, speechless face is instead what came out.
This incredible woman, whom I met less than a year ago when, to my surprise, she joined our company (wait, I thought, she is so cool, what is she doing here?) is eventually going to turn into a trembling leaf. This brilliant, independent, self confident woman is probably going to have to depend on others.
This appalling news is not giving me peace.
I can see her eyes filling with tears, I can feel her fear. My colleagues did nothing, said almost nothing. I stood up and went to her and gave her a hug. And she clung to me as if this would save her from falling. Her hold struck me as much as her diagnosis.
We are all so fragile, even though we pretend we will last forever. We are all sure that spring comes punctually, yet sometimes winter just lingers on, and on and on.

what was that word, mhmm...wisdom?!

Walking home from a hyper conversational night, I ask myself "can you trust someone who doesn´t drink at all?". I turn into my street and a wobbling human (maybe) being, as boozed as one can get, walks past me. Or tries to.

Yes, you can trust someone who doesn´t drink. Actually you should. 

No, you must.