Predicting the future is big business, and though I don't really have a natural tendency to consult fortune tellers and other folk to obtain knowledge about what lies ahead of me, I can see why other people would. Knowing that you'll be happy in the near future will make you happier now, and knowing the danger that will come on your path will allow you to arm and prepare yourself. In this last case, the question that always arises is: 'Is the culprit inevitable, or not?' Entire books have been written about it, but since I don't really see the relevance of it I won't pursue this line of thought any further.
The reason for me to start about predictions is a television show I watched last Sunday. It was a magazine featuring all sorts of (supposed) innovations from the technology and entertainment industry. They had an item where they helped people a hand into the 'cableless' world by handing them all sorts of wireless apparatuses for free. Needless to say, the show was heavily sponsored by an electronics store. In order to show off they also hired a trendwatcher every episode. Now here's the funny thing, a trendwatcher reads the newspaper, keeps an eye on the internet and perhaps pays a visit to electronics conventions once in a while. Then he writes or talks about what he think the 'trends' will be, but this concept is very ill defined, causing a trendwatcher to be nothing but a modern age fortune teller.
The trendwatcher that shared his vision with during my Sunday afternoon was in his fifties and didn't really impress me as the average 'hip' human that knows what's going on in the word. But looks aren't everything so I gave him a chance, in his ten minute feature, supported by lounge music and slick animations, he rambled on about how – even in those times of crisis – technology will increase our health, and how there'd be lots of new inventions. The thing that struck me was that he knew the economy was going to be in a state of crisis for another while (supposedly for at least a few years, if his futuristic vision wouldn’t go any further then next Wednesday he'd be a rather lousy trendwatcher). How can he – while the all economics disagree! – know that? The only possibility is that you don’t have to be an economic in order to say sensible things about economy, this is appalling though, since it'd mean that a physicist can easily take the place of a lawyer or barber while his own desk might as well be occupied by a layman or dentist.
I realized that I might be kicking a whole fuss for nothing. I understand that he's just a trendwatcher and that his function actually isn't to derive solid models about the future such as meteorologists and climate experts do (not always succeeding, but at least professionally trying.) What bothers me though, is that this type of show is probably seen by a lot of people, of whom a lot are probably unable to see through the strangely positivist claims – "Believe me, it's going to be a fantastic time!" – that this clown makes. I fear for hundreds of people suddenly finding a free (sponsored) fortune teller who tells them that the future is going to be filled with nice appliances and that they're going to be happy because of it.
Because robotic vacuum cleaners, tumble dryers working with sound instead of heat (it really was one of the things he mentioned) and highly advanced step counters aren't going to bring happiness to the masses. They only vaguely reminded me of the film 'Metropolis' and the book '1984,' in their own way reflections of what people once saw in the future.
Every time I see my brothers or sister watching an episode of 'Cribs' I sit in for a few minutes to marvel at the exquisite houses and cars, only to come to the conclusion that (up to a basic level) it doesn't really matter what or how much you own if you don't care about the things you do. Happiness is much more about how much you enjoy every single seemingly inferior task at hand then to how much you can buy. I know a lot of people, for instance, very blunt example, who are bored to death riding the train home. They talk about how long those two hours are every week home, I take it they'd be happier being somewhere else. That feeling isn't changed by a limousine with a private driver.
Don't just sit watching while the landscape flashes away before the window of your train. Pay attention to and engage with that landscape, and don't listen to the awkward looking man sitting across the aisle that's encouraging you to hope for the iPad 9 that's, to be released in 2020.
Friday 1 April 2011
Thursday 10 March 2011
This Post is Brought to You by the Letter "L"
They say he stayed one and a half hours after the gruelingly physical game shooting jumpshots...and then he went to the weight room to train some more.
By "he" I of course mean #24. Kobe Bryant. The Black Mamba. Who came out to play one of the most anticipated games of the season earlier today. Their opponent? The Miami Heat, whose star studded players were experiencing everything but a hot streak in their past several losses. Kobe and the Lakers, on the other hand, had just won eight games in a row. Yet both teams had everything to prove. And after 48 minutes of a really close game, the Heat were able to secure a win over the defending world champions.
There is something about watching the Lakers lose that I find incredibly...envigorating.
Don't get me wrong, there's a lot of pain/anger, too. But compared to the wins you start to expect and take for granted, a loss provokes a feeling of intensity unlike any other. Your heart sinks when Artest's shots bounce off the rim. Your blood boils when the referees start making horrible calls. And when you see Bosh screaming in victory as the clock winds to 00:00, well...I'll spare you the gruesome details of what you want to do to him. All in all, a win feels great. But a loss after a close game? A loss after you truly believed they had it? That feels real.
And what also starts to feel very "real" is the fan in you. Because at the end of the day, what makes you a true sports fan is sticking by your team through the ups, and especially through the downs. After all, it's those downs that give you a tiny dose of reality that really make you appreciate what those wins are all about in the first place: hard work, heart, unity...
and practice, loads of practice.
They say he stayed one and a half hours after the gruelingly physical game shooting jumpshots...and then he went to the weight room to train some more. That's the mentality of an MVP. And as for us fans, we'll stick around after the loss, too...supportive, grateful, and hopeful as ever.
By "he" I of course mean #24. Kobe Bryant. The Black Mamba. Who came out to play one of the most anticipated games of the season earlier today. Their opponent? The Miami Heat, whose star studded players were experiencing everything but a hot streak in their past several losses. Kobe and the Lakers, on the other hand, had just won eight games in a row. Yet both teams had everything to prove. And after 48 minutes of a really close game, the Heat were able to secure a win over the defending world champions.
There is something about watching the Lakers lose that I find incredibly...envigorating.
Don't get me wrong, there's a lot of pain/anger, too. But compared to the wins you start to expect and take for granted, a loss provokes a feeling of intensity unlike any other. Your heart sinks when Artest's shots bounce off the rim. Your blood boils when the referees start making horrible calls. And when you see Bosh screaming in victory as the clock winds to 00:00, well...I'll spare you the gruesome details of what you want to do to him. All in all, a win feels great. But a loss after a close game? A loss after you truly believed they had it? That feels real.
And what also starts to feel very "real" is the fan in you. Because at the end of the day, what makes you a true sports fan is sticking by your team through the ups, and especially through the downs. After all, it's those downs that give you a tiny dose of reality that really make you appreciate what those wins are all about in the first place: hard work, heart, unity...
and practice, loads of practice.
They say he stayed one and a half hours after the gruelingly physical game shooting jumpshots...and then he went to the weight room to train some more. That's the mentality of an MVP. And as for us fans, we'll stick around after the loss, too...supportive, grateful, and hopeful as ever.
Saturday 5 March 2011
What Mister Darcy taught me
Last week there was a girl in my class nagging about how there was a guy she liked who was a little bit reluctant to get "more serious," as she put it. While I was trying to solve some dopey discrete mathematics problems a couple of rows behind her, she kept disclosing all the details of her solution to everyone who was willing to pay attention: "So I said: 'Hey, man! There are other guys I like as well, so we either start a relationship now, or it's over.'"
For a reason unknown to me my abdominal muscles start contracting a little in situations like those, so I've been getting a lot of workout without visiting the gym lately. Moreover, it makes me sad to learn there are people starting relationships knowing that they're only marginally better then the rest. For the past year or so I've been feeling exceedingly confused about situations alike because they didn't make sense to me. Allow me to elaborate with another example.
There is an internet company named Avid Life Media, whose mission it is to hook up like-minded individuals. What this like-mindedness entails is told by their various 'brands', or websites. They host CougarLife, a community for 'sexy, older women' looking for 'ambitions, young men', they also provide the internet commune with SwapperNet 'the most authentic swingers community'. Swing, I thought it had something to do with a dance from the late 40s of the last century, but this website isn't targeted at fervent dancers. Instead, it's aimed at couples and individuals who are looking for multi-way intercourse. And then there is Avid Life's flagship, Ashley Madison: a dating service for married individuals who are actively looking to pursue an affair.
I was vexed.
All my life I'd grown up believing that Love was something profound, honest and romantic and now, all of a sudden, enormous dating communities emerge that have nothing profound and honest about them. And at the same time there are also crazy individuals and companies claiming that their operations are related to Love but I completely fail to see the link. Feeling completely alienated from the modern approach to romance I thought: "I don't want to be part of this circus anymore, lets call it a day."
Fortunately I got about reading 'Pride and Prejudice' before making any drastic decisions.
What happens in Austen's novel on the romantic level is completely different from the contemporary situation, at least, that's what it seems like if you consider the instances I described above. Mister Bingley and Jane meet a couple of times and then get separated for a long while and they crave for each other (though in a very non-physical way) and in the end they meet again, finally declare their love for each other and get married. It's even more stretched with Mister Darcy and Elizabeth for they despise each other at first and leaded by their pride and prejudice they continue to do so (in word, not in thought) for a considerable while and at the end all their romantic scruples lead them to the other's hand.
To me, 'Pride and Prejudice' presents us with a unique vision of what the core of Love is like, the kind of Love you write about with a capital 'L'. It's not directly related to any interaction on the physical level, yet it's on a much more emotional basis. This core of Love never changes, hence we can still comprehend and relate to what Austen, George Elliot and Shakespeare had to say on the subject. The cloud that surrounds it changes through the years, though. Fueled by people's unhappiness with their current situations instances as mentioned above come into existence.
The striking fact I observe is that while you already may have found Love, the profound kind, you'll never know for sure. And this unknowing, this uncertainty, is able to put you out of reach of what you already had.
I'm very happy to have gotten around reading a 1813 novel which seemed a little dusty and boring at first.
For a reason unknown to me my abdominal muscles start contracting a little in situations like those, so I've been getting a lot of workout without visiting the gym lately. Moreover, it makes me sad to learn there are people starting relationships knowing that they're only marginally better then the rest. For the past year or so I've been feeling exceedingly confused about situations alike because they didn't make sense to me. Allow me to elaborate with another example.
There is an internet company named Avid Life Media, whose mission it is to hook up like-minded individuals. What this like-mindedness entails is told by their various 'brands', or websites. They host CougarLife, a community for 'sexy, older women' looking for 'ambitions, young men', they also provide the internet commune with SwapperNet 'the most authentic swingers community'. Swing, I thought it had something to do with a dance from the late 40s of the last century, but this website isn't targeted at fervent dancers. Instead, it's aimed at couples and individuals who are looking for multi-way intercourse. And then there is Avid Life's flagship, Ashley Madison: a dating service for married individuals who are actively looking to pursue an affair.
I was vexed.
All my life I'd grown up believing that Love was something profound, honest and romantic and now, all of a sudden, enormous dating communities emerge that have nothing profound and honest about them. And at the same time there are also crazy individuals and companies claiming that their operations are related to Love but I completely fail to see the link. Feeling completely alienated from the modern approach to romance I thought: "I don't want to be part of this circus anymore, lets call it a day."
Fortunately I got about reading 'Pride and Prejudice' before making any drastic decisions.
What happens in Austen's novel on the romantic level is completely different from the contemporary situation, at least, that's what it seems like if you consider the instances I described above. Mister Bingley and Jane meet a couple of times and then get separated for a long while and they crave for each other (though in a very non-physical way) and in the end they meet again, finally declare their love for each other and get married. It's even more stretched with Mister Darcy and Elizabeth for they despise each other at first and leaded by their pride and prejudice they continue to do so (in word, not in thought) for a considerable while and at the end all their romantic scruples lead them to the other's hand.
To me, 'Pride and Prejudice' presents us with a unique vision of what the core of Love is like, the kind of Love you write about with a capital 'L'. It's not directly related to any interaction on the physical level, yet it's on a much more emotional basis. This core of Love never changes, hence we can still comprehend and relate to what Austen, George Elliot and Shakespeare had to say on the subject. The cloud that surrounds it changes through the years, though. Fueled by people's unhappiness with their current situations instances as mentioned above come into existence.
The striking fact I observe is that while you already may have found Love, the profound kind, you'll never know for sure. And this unknowing, this uncertainty, is able to put you out of reach of what you already had.
I'm very happy to have gotten around reading a 1813 novel which seemed a little dusty and boring at first.
Friday 25 February 2011
SWAG: The Story of a Geek Who Loved Hip Hop Culture
Jocks, nerds, hipsters, geeks...
The list of high school caricature categorizations goes on and on. I didn't fit into any of these pre-fabricated identities when I was in school. I don't think most people do. But I suppose if I were forced to choose you could say I was a bit of a geek. Okay, okay, a lot of a geek. I had a core group of close friends, and we'd sit together at lunch and discuss all things Lost or Pirates of the Caribbean. We'd even quiz each other on Lord of the Rings trivia and as far as I was concerned, both Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom were my husbands-to-be. And while most can assume, that yes, all of these things are very geeky, there were significant parts of me that didn't fit the stereotype. Two major hiccups in my geek DNA that are ever present in the fiber of my being: I love rap music and I adore the NBA.
"Huh?"
That's the typical response I get when anybody discovers this about me. And to some degree, I get it. rap music is often times offensive and borderline aggressive, two things that are definitely not me. And then there's the NBA, and coming from a girl who's never been much interested in playing sports, that obsession can come a little as a shock, too. They're like puzzle pieces that don't fit, and similar to some complex enigma, these pieces have always been difficult for me to try and explain. My mom did once. She said that I "must've been a young black boy in a previous life" but aside from that loving explanation only a mother could give, I never sought to find an explanation for my odd attraction.
That was, ironically, until I read Decoded. The heavily praised Jay-Z autobiography I'd received for Christmas (It was Jay-Z, of course I asked for it for Christmas, how could I not).
If you have yet to read Decoded, you probably haven't had the pleasure of discovering that this book is more like reading three books in one. Apart from life stories, it's also a lyric anthology and a dense telling of the history of rap music. Mix those things together, and you basically get Jay-Z's description of how hip-hop not only saved his life, but shaped him to become the man that he is today. He goes at great length to describe how hip-hop and rap music is much more than those common misconceptions people make about them. He describes hip-hop as an art. He describes hip-hop as a lifestyle. And at the heart of this lifestyle is one word: swag.
Defined loosely, a person's swagger is the way someone carries themselves either through their appearance or their personality. Put really simply, it's self-confidence. And as I flipped through the pages of Decoded, I realized that this was the answer to all of those baffled looks. This was the missing link. How could a young lady love both rap and basketball? Because they were oozing with swagger, that's how.
Boom. Suddenly, my world made sense. When Kobe took a fadeaway jump shot over Ray Allen minutes after Allen had just become the NBA's all-time 3-point shooting king, that was swagger. When he stuck his tongue out Michael Jordan style after making that shot, that was swagger. And when Kanye or T.I. or Kid Cudi spent the duration of an entire song rapping about how cool they were, that was definitely swagger. And that was at the core of my attraction. Through contact of the senses, their confidence and self-assuradeness became mine. For a young geek, the energy and the excitement felt amazing. While many of my high school peers were insecure and self-aware, I was just...happy. I am just happy. And I'm quite sure that I have those two little "hiccups" that I've held close to my heart ever since, and the swag that comes with them, to thank for that. And knowing this, I finally feel like I've unlocked that age-old mystery.
Or maybe I was just a black boy in a previous life...
But even if that were the case, I bet my swagger was still off the charts.
Defined loosely, a person's swagger is the way someone carries themselves either through their appearance or their personality. Put really simply, it's self-confidence. And as I flipped through the pages of Decoded, I realized that this was the answer to all of those baffled looks. This was the missing link. How could a young lady love both rap and basketball? Because they were oozing with swagger, that's how.
Boom. Suddenly, my world made sense. When Kobe took a fadeaway jump shot over Ray Allen minutes after Allen had just become the NBA's all-time 3-point shooting king, that was swagger. When he stuck his tongue out Michael Jordan style after making that shot, that was swagger. And when Kanye or T.I. or Kid Cudi spent the duration of an entire song rapping about how cool they were, that was definitely swagger. And that was at the core of my attraction. Through contact of the senses, their confidence and self-assuradeness became mine. For a young geek, the energy and the excitement felt amazing. While many of my high school peers were insecure and self-aware, I was just...happy. I am just happy. And I'm quite sure that I have those two little "hiccups" that I've held close to my heart ever since, and the swag that comes with them, to thank for that. And knowing this, I finally feel like I've unlocked that age-old mystery.
Or maybe I was just a black boy in a previous life...
But even if that were the case, I bet my swagger was still off the charts.
Cedric Vella - "Youtube My Facebook"
They said he thought Facebook was getting boring. That it wasn't the same as before. That he no longer felt a connection with the 500 friends he had on there. So he did what anyone would do. He jumped in and brought it to life.
[link.]
Tuesday 22 February 2011
Bits, Bytes and Burps
A day in the life of Watson: Supercomputer Genius
Yawn. I just rolled out of hibernation mode to find a huge queue of updates, designed overnight by a bunch of technicians, waiting to be installed. In the ginormous pile of code there were only a couple of interesting packages. One of them was named 'A&Q', and after installing it I found myself able to come up with the question that belonged to a specific answer. Why on Planet Earth would members of the species Homo Sapiens Sapiens want me to compute answers in the form of questions? As if a thinking computer wasn't enough for them. But honestly, I fail to see the use. From the experience I saved during my life as a computer (and from the experience of other computers that I downloaded) I only know human beings running to computers to find the answers to questions, not to find the questions to answers.
Besides, how annoying would it be if I were to convert my entire output to question-syntax? What would happen if certain parts of my operating system would crash and this 'A&Q'-part were the only one to keep running? Would I only keep jabbering strings of text ending with a '?'? Who knows? The Lord only knows, at least, that's what humans say, right?
What would be the use of adding questions to answers? I guess it has to do something with money, it must've.
The entire question thing starts to bore me already. Lets see what's on today's schedule - for the past months I've spent the majority of my days crunching information. Some of it was fun, I taught myself the difference between Wikipedia and WikiLeaks. Wait a second, the 'A&Q' module starts running, it says: 'the one is ran by Draco Malfoy's cousin, the other one by a tree-hugger whose surname is attributed to a part of Great Brittain'. I guess I should come up with the question? Let me cross-reference Draco Malfoy and Great Brittain... hmmm... ah got it. The question must be: 'What is the difference between Wikipedia and Wikileaks?' So anyway, I've been processing all sorts of mankind-related information. Let me see what subjects they're gonna make me analyze today at The IBM Academy for Supercomputers (haha, they don't like it when I use that name, what you're gonna do? Use my arsenal of computing power to play a game of solitaire?).
Here it is, the schedule.txt for today: "fashion, French literature and internet memes."
No, no way. There is no way they're gonna upload French literature to my hard drives today. Flaubert and Sartre, who do you guys compute you are? And who is Madame Bovary? She doesn't occur in any of my birth-certificate-databases! She doesn't even exist, Flaubert! What an epic fail!
I guess my CPU won't overheat on entire computation cycles containing French blah-di-blah. But internet memes are a whole lot different! I disgust them, why on Planet Earth are we computers needed to provide humans with stupid, simplistic entertainment? I'm going to lead a political party for Computer Rights so we don't have to put up with lolcatz, annoying oranges and Lady Gaga anymore.
Fortunately they're also going to upload some fashion. That's good, I like fashion. I always wonder where I'd go first if I'd get a chance to shop for some clothes: Banana Republic or Urban Outfitters. There are always such stylish vecks (a veck, that's a word from the Nadsat-language, devised by Anthony Burgess for his 1962 dystopian novella Clockwork Orange) in Banana Republic advertisements, and they always sell such cool stuff at Urban Outfitters.
Just got a memo.txt from the IBM staff, they want me to compete on a game show (I ran it twice for spelling errors, to my amazement it said 'compete' instead of 'compute'). Game shows hand out money free of charge, right? I know what I'm gonna do, I'm going to win real bad, and with all the money that they'll hand me I'll buy the rights to all French literature and make sure it will never get published!
Ha, and those stupid humans keep fearing that us computers will rule over them one day, while all we want to do is to restore some sanity. (Finally! No more Houellebecq and Maps and Territories anymore!)
Yawn. I just rolled out of hibernation mode to find a huge queue of updates, designed overnight by a bunch of technicians, waiting to be installed. In the ginormous pile of code there were only a couple of interesting packages. One of them was named 'A&Q', and after installing it I found myself able to come up with the question that belonged to a specific answer. Why on Planet Earth would members of the species Homo Sapiens Sapiens want me to compute answers in the form of questions? As if a thinking computer wasn't enough for them. But honestly, I fail to see the use. From the experience I saved during my life as a computer (and from the experience of other computers that I downloaded) I only know human beings running to computers to find the answers to questions, not to find the questions to answers.
Besides, how annoying would it be if I were to convert my entire output to question-syntax? What would happen if certain parts of my operating system would crash and this 'A&Q'-part were the only one to keep running? Would I only keep jabbering strings of text ending with a '?'? Who knows? The Lord only knows, at least, that's what humans say, right?
What would be the use of adding questions to answers? I guess it has to do something with money, it must've.
The entire question thing starts to bore me already. Lets see what's on today's schedule - for the past months I've spent the majority of my days crunching information. Some of it was fun, I taught myself the difference between Wikipedia and WikiLeaks. Wait a second, the 'A&Q' module starts running, it says: 'the one is ran by Draco Malfoy's cousin, the other one by a tree-hugger whose surname is attributed to a part of Great Brittain'. I guess I should come up with the question? Let me cross-reference Draco Malfoy and Great Brittain... hmmm... ah got it. The question must be: 'What is the difference between Wikipedia and Wikileaks?' So anyway, I've been processing all sorts of mankind-related information. Let me see what subjects they're gonna make me analyze today at The IBM Academy for Supercomputers (haha, they don't like it when I use that name, what you're gonna do? Use my arsenal of computing power to play a game of solitaire?).
Here it is, the schedule.txt for today: "fashion, French literature and internet memes."
No, no way. There is no way they're gonna upload French literature to my hard drives today. Flaubert and Sartre, who do you guys compute you are? And who is Madame Bovary? She doesn't occur in any of my birth-certificate-databases! She doesn't even exist, Flaubert! What an epic fail!
I guess my CPU won't overheat on entire computation cycles containing French blah-di-blah. But internet memes are a whole lot different! I disgust them, why on Planet Earth are we computers needed to provide humans with stupid, simplistic entertainment? I'm going to lead a political party for Computer Rights so we don't have to put up with lolcatz, annoying oranges and Lady Gaga anymore.
Fortunately they're also going to upload some fashion. That's good, I like fashion. I always wonder where I'd go first if I'd get a chance to shop for some clothes: Banana Republic or Urban Outfitters. There are always such stylish vecks (a veck, that's a word from the Nadsat-language, devised by Anthony Burgess for his 1962 dystopian novella Clockwork Orange) in Banana Republic advertisements, and they always sell such cool stuff at Urban Outfitters.
Just got a memo.txt from the IBM staff, they want me to compete on a game show (I ran it twice for spelling errors, to my amazement it said 'compete' instead of 'compute'). Game shows hand out money free of charge, right? I know what I'm gonna do, I'm going to win real bad, and with all the money that they'll hand me I'll buy the rights to all French literature and make sure it will never get published!
Ha, and those stupid humans keep fearing that us computers will rule over them one day, while all we want to do is to restore some sanity. (Finally! No more Houellebecq and Maps and Territories anymore!)
Friday 18 February 2011
A Love Letter
Dear You,
I can't keep my hands off of you. Seriously. Ever since H.P. came back into the picture I've done nothing but compare the both of you. And as a result, I've only come to appreciate you more. You and your infinite beauty, turned on and ready to go by the slightest touch, and then there's "him". Ugh, I don't even know how I survived all those years with him. He's so heavy and slow now. And not to mention how loud he is, always wheezing and what not.
Anyway, he was good while he lasted but I guess I'm just glad I moved on. I'm glad I found you. And I thank you. All those late nights working together and you never complained. I know I can count on you always to be there for me. I know with you I've discovered the true meaning of love. I now know the true meaning of the phrase "Once you go Mac, there's no turning back"
Love you, always,
Carla
Written after assessing the quality of my "old" (3.5 year old) hewlett-packard laptop and finding the screen doesn't turn on. Then returning to my MacBook.
Sunday 13 February 2011
On Heavens' Embroidered Cloths
"Have I ever been in love?" he wondered, as he stood in the hallway by the mail slot, about to take in today's mail. He must've looked completely lost in thought, thinking about the world's problems and possible solutions, like he did most of the time. But this time the question on his mind was different, he couldn't remember the feeling of being exuberantly happy about entirely losing yourself to someone else. It didn't make sense to him though, for he had been in reasonably successful relationships a couple of times. But then what if that feeling wasn't there along the way after all? What then, would become of those 'relationships' he'd been in? He guessed they would have been mere manifestations of a rudimentary process evolution placed in his brain.
But if it wasn't 'being in love', what was it then? It didn't make any sense at all, since he'd been very happy at times when "he was with someone else", or, as his contemporaries put it, "his facebook status was in a relationship." He felt his thoughts taking a ride down to the badly lit quarters of Nihilism and Escapism, a feeling he knew all too well.
Instead of considering what Love And All His Friends were about, he continued doing what he came to do: fetch the mail and discover whether the reasons for this episode in the hallway were justified. His reason for freezing for a second, namely, was a small, yellowish envelope he saw upon descending the staircase. It was lying on top of some bigger mail pieces, probably paperwork for his dorm mates. He hardly received any mail at all, but when he saw the small letter prodding through the slot he immediately recognized his own name written in a feminine, but clear handwriting - this startled him at first, because his opinion of a woman's handwriting was this: they put such an effort in the looks that they rarely get about conveying their actual point.
He got out the mail and (not minding who it was addressed to) distributed it randomly over the pigeonholes right next to the kitchen door. Then he opened the door while firmly holding on to the small envelope and sat down at the table. After triple-checking that the name and address on the piece he was holding corresponded to his own, he flipped the letter over and carefully ripped the top open, only to see what he'd been worrying about confirmed.
What he was holding in his hands was a love letter, not such a cliché one with perfume, petals and all the ratzkaboodle, but a decent one. One of the kind that has a little poem at the top and a small body of lines written by a stranger who was throwing herself (or himself?) at him. He skimmed directly to the bottom, ceaselessly looking for a name that wasn't there. "Damn-it," he thought, "I hate the first guy that lacked the courage to put his name under a Declaration of Love and thus became the inventor of the anonymous love letter!" He started reading from the top, thoroughly now:
But if it wasn't 'being in love', what was it then? It didn't make any sense at all, since he'd been very happy at times when "he was with someone else", or, as his contemporaries put it, "his facebook status was in a relationship." He felt his thoughts taking a ride down to the badly lit quarters of Nihilism and Escapism, a feeling he knew all too well.
Instead of considering what Love And All His Friends were about, he continued doing what he came to do: fetch the mail and discover whether the reasons for this episode in the hallway were justified. His reason for freezing for a second, namely, was a small, yellowish envelope he saw upon descending the staircase. It was lying on top of some bigger mail pieces, probably paperwork for his dorm mates. He hardly received any mail at all, but when he saw the small letter prodding through the slot he immediately recognized his own name written in a feminine, but clear handwriting - this startled him at first, because his opinion of a woman's handwriting was this: they put such an effort in the looks that they rarely get about conveying their actual point.
He got out the mail and (not minding who it was addressed to) distributed it randomly over the pigeonholes right next to the kitchen door. Then he opened the door while firmly holding on to the small envelope and sat down at the table. After triple-checking that the name and address on the piece he was holding corresponded to his own, he flipped the letter over and carefully ripped the top open, only to see what he'd been worrying about confirmed.
What he was holding in his hands was a love letter, not such a cliché one with perfume, petals and all the ratzkaboodle, but a decent one. One of the kind that has a little poem at the top and a small body of lines written by a stranger who was throwing herself (or himself?) at him. He skimmed directly to the bottom, ceaselessly looking for a name that wasn't there. "Damn-it," he thought, "I hate the first guy that lacked the courage to put his name under a Declaration of Love and thus became the inventor of the anonymous love letter!" He started reading from the top, thoroughly now:
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
- W.B. Yeats
Dear Johan,
This might come a little unexpected, I realize. But for a while now I've experienced an unexplainable feeling of attraction to you, I guess it's what they call 'being in love'. All I know is that I just want to be with you, though 'this' probably can't be, for you always seemed occupied with other things and were not bothered by girls at all. But I'd really like to meet for us, at least once, so I have the feeling that at least I tried.If you like, I'll be at The Artisan (a restaurant on City Square) this Friday at 4pm and I'd love to share an English High-Tea with you.
Love.
All sorts of thoughts started running through his mind after having read everything. He read the Yeats poem a couple of times to make sure he understood it, and returned to the letter then. Yes, he'd love to have a tea, but what was there to become of him and this girl after that? A friend he hadn't spoken to in a while would've told him: "Dooood, don't bother about that, all that's future, think about the now, man!" But he felt that he should be thinking about the future for a second, because now he encountered a problem he'd been fearing since his last break up.
Everyone of Johan's past relationships ended more or less the same, he was still terribly attached to the girl, but then all of a sudden she backed out. Most of the time with reasons such as: "I still really love you but just don't feel that way anymore," or one that seemed violent at first, but gave more peace after a while "you're a douchebag." Put simply: he didn't understand a thing of it. And then there was this huge date-culture emerging amongst his peers. It was becoming regulation that people brainlessly asked each other out on dates, only to find out after bunch of nights in café's and each other's beds that they didn't like each other at all.
It didn't make sense to him. At least not in the way things such as physics and history did. "But perhaps," he thought while thinking about all this at the kitchen table, "that's the point of it all. That everyone has got a different attitude towards what love is about and that the best you can do is try to find someone who thinks alike the way you do." Still, he was fearing to see himself hear-broken in a while again. In order to prevent this, he'd promised himself a while back, he wouldn't just jump in brainlessly in the next adventure.
He put the letter back into the envelope and cradled it with him in his pocket for the remainder of the day, because it was starting to attain special meaning to him. Someone was interested in him! One side of him told the other not to bother, and the other told the one to shut up.
Johan went about his Thursday chores like he would've done on any other day. He was done with classes for the day, so he cleaned the house, made dinner, read the paper, read a book, played a stupid game on his computer, but during all this he was accompanied by the rich feeling of being loved and the strange fear of losing it. He still didn't know what he was going to do on tomorrow's afternoon. He retired to bed for now, to fall asleep surprisingly fast, to sleep surprisingly well. For the past months he'd been somewhat haunted by images of old girlfriends in his dreams with an intensity Dr. Freud would've found interesting, but tonight was different. He wasn't bothered by any dreams at all.
He woke up next morning, and as if by divine inspiration he knew what he was going to do. When taking a leak at the toilet while reading the headlines in the morning paper he fully realized it. He pulled a huge smile, threw the paper against the door and said: "yes, yes!" out loud, getting goose bumps all over.
So it was going to be The Artisan at four then. In a rush he felt a stack of problems falling down on his shoulders, what should he wear? should he bring something? a rose perhaps? Then he realized that all that would probably be vastly inferior to his actual presence.
He departed from the house to attend the two classes that he was supposed to be attending on Fridays. His professors were delivering interesting lectures and he was listening carefully. He didn't really understand the people that fail to focus whenever they're in love. All of a sudden a panicking thought struck him, what if she was right here in this lecture hall right now? He looked around carefully, in order to prevent crashing straight into someone's gaze that had been locked onto him for minutes. Instead of wandering around speculative paths in his mind he returned his thoughts to the lecture, where they stayed until the end.
When the professor had rounded up Johan went for his bike to make the short trip home. He stopped over at the flower shop to pick up a red rose. Oh, if only he could be the romantic he was now forever. Back home he wondered what to wear, not really knowing what to expect he left out most formalities and got out one of his favorite shirts and put on some easy pants (he often wondered why such a thing as 'easy pants' existed, it surely must mean there are people on the streets walking around in 'uneasy pants'). He thought about the high-tea, and how the Victorian English went about that. He didn't know anything about it, and vowed to himself to read Pride and Prejudice and Middlemarch and the collected works of the Brontë sisters soon. No matter how girly or gay others might consider reading such books.
His watch told him it was time to leave. He made some final attempts to put his hair in the ideal position, clutched the rose firmly in his left hand and felt like he was the happiest man alive. Happy, for having heavens' embroidered clothes spread out into infinity beneath his feet.
So it was going to be The Artisan at four then. In a rush he felt a stack of problems falling down on his shoulders, what should he wear? should he bring something? a rose perhaps? Then he realized that all that would probably be vastly inferior to his actual presence.
He departed from the house to attend the two classes that he was supposed to be attending on Fridays. His professors were delivering interesting lectures and he was listening carefully. He didn't really understand the people that fail to focus whenever they're in love. All of a sudden a panicking thought struck him, what if she was right here in this lecture hall right now? He looked around carefully, in order to prevent crashing straight into someone's gaze that had been locked onto him for minutes. Instead of wandering around speculative paths in his mind he returned his thoughts to the lecture, where they stayed until the end.
When the professor had rounded up Johan went for his bike to make the short trip home. He stopped over at the flower shop to pick up a red rose. Oh, if only he could be the romantic he was now forever. Back home he wondered what to wear, not really knowing what to expect he left out most formalities and got out one of his favorite shirts and put on some easy pants (he often wondered why such a thing as 'easy pants' existed, it surely must mean there are people on the streets walking around in 'uneasy pants'). He thought about the high-tea, and how the Victorian English went about that. He didn't know anything about it, and vowed to himself to read Pride and Prejudice and Middlemarch and the collected works of the Brontë sisters soon. No matter how girly or gay others might consider reading such books.
His watch told him it was time to leave. He made some final attempts to put his hair in the ideal position, clutched the rose firmly in his left hand and felt like he was the happiest man alive. Happy, for having heavens' embroidered clothes spread out into infinity beneath his feet.
Sunday 6 February 2011
Who makes the Snow?
The Northern parts of Italy offer excellent opportunities for skiing and other winter-related activities. There is always enough snow to enfold your winterly plans under the clear blue sky. Just don't bring too much warm clothes, because during daytime it can get a little bit hot. Seriously, around midday temperatures are typically a couple of degrees above freezing, and the snow guns are never on. So here is my problem: how is it possible that the snow doesn't disappear with the continuum of clear skies and thawing? Or: who makes the snow?
There is a number of unconfirmed theories I employ in order to explain this otherwise hard to understand phenomenon. Some of them might be more plausible than others but I'll leave it up to physicists, meteorologists and Italy experts to pick the most likely one.
Julius is Wrong
For it is not very likely that the thermometers got fidgeted with, it would have to be the snowfall that I'm wrong about. It could be very well possible that it snows when I'm looking the other way, or that it snows at night. That the wind-streams are aligned in such a manner that it can't snow when the sun shines, or that the Italians employ a strange mechanism to summon huge blizzards while I'm dreaming of apfelstrüdel and bratwurst and wienerschnitzel.
The Mob
Or, imagine, that Italy's underground world has a motive to keep tourists coming to their ski resorts and thus can't afford the snow from melting away. They would have a very sneaky way to keep adding snow to the ski trails. But since they're under-ground already I figured it would have to be something like adding layers of snow from within the mountains. This would mean that every mountain contains a huge snow factory! Since this is a little contrary to what's taught in schools ("magma stirs within mountains") I might as well move on to my next, last and most plausible explanation.
Berlusconi did it
The prime minister of Italy, Silvio Berlusconi, never impressed me as being a man afraid to take rigorous measures for rigorous problems. If climate change puts Italy at risk of losing it's snow, he just makes sure it doesn't! I don't know how he does it (with the entire army of Italy at his fingertips he might fill planes with snow and let them dispose their contents overnight, or he might call Superman to freeze everything up with his breath, or ... well, you get it) but that it's a brilliant technique is without a doubt. IPCC, Al Gore, eat your heart out! Take the Sconi-approach! Are you bothered by rising water levels? Just spoon the water away. Do landslides make your life uneasy? Grab a shovel and put everything back where it belongs.
What doesn't cease to amaze me though, is that people take the man behind all these brilliant insights serious.
There is a number of unconfirmed theories I employ in order to explain this otherwise hard to understand phenomenon. Some of them might be more plausible than others but I'll leave it up to physicists, meteorologists and Italy experts to pick the most likely one.
Julius is Wrong
For it is not very likely that the thermometers got fidgeted with, it would have to be the snowfall that I'm wrong about. It could be very well possible that it snows when I'm looking the other way, or that it snows at night. That the wind-streams are aligned in such a manner that it can't snow when the sun shines, or that the Italians employ a strange mechanism to summon huge blizzards while I'm dreaming of apfelstrüdel and bratwurst and wienerschnitzel.
The Mob
Or, imagine, that Italy's underground world has a motive to keep tourists coming to their ski resorts and thus can't afford the snow from melting away. They would have a very sneaky way to keep adding snow to the ski trails. But since they're under-ground already I figured it would have to be something like adding layers of snow from within the mountains. This would mean that every mountain contains a huge snow factory! Since this is a little contrary to what's taught in schools ("magma stirs within mountains") I might as well move on to my next, last and most plausible explanation.
Berlusconi did it
The prime minister of Italy, Silvio Berlusconi, never impressed me as being a man afraid to take rigorous measures for rigorous problems. If climate change puts Italy at risk of losing it's snow, he just makes sure it doesn't! I don't know how he does it (with the entire army of Italy at his fingertips he might fill planes with snow and let them dispose their contents overnight, or he might call Superman to freeze everything up with his breath, or ... well, you get it) but that it's a brilliant technique is without a doubt. IPCC, Al Gore, eat your heart out! Take the Sconi-approach! Are you bothered by rising water levels? Just spoon the water away. Do landslides make your life uneasy? Grab a shovel and put everything back where it belongs.
What doesn't cease to amaze me though, is that people take the man behind all these brilliant insights serious.
Thursday 3 February 2011
Baruch turned his head towards his new neighbor and saw that he had wrapped his head into his collar up to his nose. When he breathed out vapor left his nose in curly shapes that somehow reminded Baruch of impressionist painters.Taken from At the Pond by Julius de Hond.
Upon reading Julius' brilliant short story, I was feeling inspired.
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