About a wolf's head and the cave of ignorance

When I was a child I had a cactus of great stature that was placed on the window board of my room. I loved this prickly plant. Funnily enough, I thought it was the prettiest thing I had ever seen, and I often looked at it in broad daylight without the slightest fear or suspicion. It was a cactus. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But I was four years old at that time and as such rife with groundless anxieties that rose as soon as the sun set. Ghosts lived under my bed, witches in my wardrobe and ugly little goblins in my doll house. In an attempt to secure my nighttime peace, I negotiated a comprehensive code of conduct with the spirits that I believed to haunt the house. Every night I had to execute one and the same routine to make sure they weren't allowed to leave their hiding place to attack me during my sleep. It was a fairly arduous choreography that had to be completed without a mistake but once I managed to make it, I thought myself safe.

Until the day when the species of wolves entered the circle of my enemies. For one reason or another, I developed a sheer terror of these quadrupeds although my parents repeatedly promised that they had long left Bavaria to move to the neighbouring countries in the East. There is no need to mention that my parents' pledge wasn't worth a penny at night. The absence of daylight turns every children's room into a projection surface for infantile phantasies and horrors, and my imagination was as vivid as my courage was absent.

In this particular case, a wolf had settled behind the rifle-green roller blind that my parents lowered in the evening before they sent me to bed. The predator appeared as the shadow of a big wolfish head that looked so terrifying that it either deprived me of sleep or gave me horrid nightmares. This went on for a couple of months - although the childish awareness of time can be misleading here - until one day a true miracle happened. The wolf head underwent a wondrous metamorphosis and turned into a horse - an animal that I was devoted to with great affection.

I believe, it is the fear that explains why the existence of a wolf on my window board hadn't aroused any suspicion, whereas the horse head did. I looked into the matter with a first sprout of ratio and finally mustered up the courage to look behind the blinds as soon as I was sure that the horse wouldn't turn back to its wolfish state.

Today, I can't remember if I was surprised or happy to find out that it was the cactus who staged a nocturnal shadow play, and that the wolf had transformed into a horse because my mum had turned the cactus around to make sure it wouldn't lean towards the sun whilst growing.

Years later, I was reminded of this incidence of enlightenment during a philosophy class. The subject was Plato's "Allegory of the Cave" that is part of "The Republic" and, very briefly, draws on the image of objects and their shadows to examine how the human perception and denomination of matters is subject to education.

Today, I was thinking about the allegory and enlightenment in general as sometimes I find it rather boring to live in the undeceived age of education that offers scientific answers to most or let's be honest almost all of my everyday questions.

How astonishing it must have been when mankind found out that the world wasn't flat. Sometimes, I would prefer the company of questions marks and could easily do without the opportunity to turn each query into a solution by combing through the sheer infinite pool of knowledge that is out there. All I have to do is browse the books, the web and it won't take long before I am presented with one crystal clear fact or several methods of resolutions that I can then examine and apply to my liking. Wouldn't it be nice to not know things for a change? Wouldn't it be nice to be clueless and unillumined sometimes? Wouldn't it be nice to have access to the cave of ignorance? If you have the key, please get in touch.

"Any one who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eyes are two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye, and he who remembers this when he sees any one whose vision is perplexed and weak, will not be too ready to laugh, he will first ask whether that soul of man has come out of the brighter light, and is unable to see because unaccustomed to the dark, or having turned from darkness to the day is dazzled by excess of light. And he will count the one happy in his condition and state of being, and he will pity the other; or, if he have a mind to laugh at the soul which comes from below into the light, there will be more reason in this than in the laugh which greets him who returns from above out of the light into the cave." ~ Plato, The Republic

Morituri te salutant

This morning I left my house with itchy feet and a mind as light as air.

Rushing down the frosted streets, I soon felt a cold breath in my neck catching up with me and my thoughts. On my heels: myself - in the guise of a vulture not yet fully fledged.

"Run!", it crowed. "Run - as fast as you can. Until your heart leaps out of its cage so you can catch it, dissect it. So you can hold it in your hands and examine it, and look for the holes and the voids."

"Scream!", it squealed. "Scream - as loud as you can. Until your lungs jump out of your chest and your voice hits the end of the world to come back like a boomerang that cleaves your heart in two. As sometimes one heart is not enough and you need two to beat against the trials of the past."

But I stood still and swallowed my voice.

Sometimes one heart is not enough but two are too many - just as sometimes the world is too big a place but yet too small.

And what's the use of a heart if you need to split it in two for it to be great-hearted enough to revoke the phantoms of history?

What's the use of a voice when you need to send it around the world for your heart to listen?

I shook my head and resumed my walk but ever since a shadow of an unfeathered vulture has been flitting about somewhere near me.

"It disturbs me no more to find men base, unjust, or selfish than to see apes mischievous, wolves savage, or the vulture ravenous." ~ Jean-Paul Sartre

\äb-ˈskyu̇r-ə-tē, əb-\

Light on. Light off. Light on. Light off.

On. Off. On. Off.

Bright. Dark. Light. Black.

Isn't it obscure how much you can read into the night?

The dark.

Blackness.

Blindness.

Darkness throws itself into the arms of our interpretation

as passionately as an untouched canvas into a painter's fantasy.

It has a million lines between its shades.

Thousand and one stories are lingering within it.

Countless dreams and nightmares unfold from darkness' black soil.

Myriads of hopes and anxieties hide in its cracks.

Naivety and suspicion dwell under its blanket.

Light, however, is a dog in the manger.

Light enlightens.

Light turns the colourful attires of esperance into bare facts.

Light purges the filthy garments of mistrust.

Illusions precluded.

Disillusion deluded.

Illumination unveils objects.

Objects cast shadows.

Shadows move with the sun.

And at the end of they day,

shadows blend into the night as if the object behind it had been erased.

Light on. Light off. Light on. Light off.

On. Off. On. Off.

Bright. Dark. Light. Black.

Isn't it obscure?

"There is a world of difference between truth and facts. Facts can obscure the truth." ~ Maya Angelou

The Thieves of Time

When I was young and as impatient as you can only be when growing older seems to be something utterly desirable, I read a book: “Momo”, a fantasy novel for children written by German author Michael Ende, and also a parable that should change my little world and funny views in a very sustainable way.

Down to the present day, I am infatuated with the symbolisms that Michael Ende raises to depict human peculiarities, moral and social values as well as the concept of time and how to decipher and delude it. One supremely simple formula that Beppo, one of the novel’s protagonists, recommends to the main character Momo will probably always have a prominent place in my endeavour to embrace existence.

But before I give this recipe away, you might want to learn more about Momo. The story about this little orphan girl of mysterious origin is set in an unnamed city in the here and now. Momo lives in the ruins of an amphitheatre and enjoys a very special reputation within her neighbourhood due to her ability to listen. “Go and see, Momo!”, is the suggestion to everyone at loss. With open ears for everyone who comes to seek her advice, Momo helps people to find solutions to their problems – simply by listening, a gift that brings Momo many friends. Among them: Beppo, an old street sweeper, and Guido, a poetical tourist guide.

One day the idyll is broken, however, with the arrival of the Men in Grey. These scary and strange representatives of the Timesavings Bank have come to town to promote the idea of “time-saving” among the residents. With great success they sell their concept and talk people into depositing their time to the Bank that will return the savings later with interest. Slowly, all that matters to those who become clients to the Men in Grey is to save as much time as possible for later use. A gruesome business that gradually affects the entire city. Life becomes plain, sterile, hectic, devoid of all things considered time-wasting including social activities, art, imagination and sleeping. Clothing and buildings are designed the same for everyone, townscape turns into uniform monotony and life into one of hectic rush and precipitance.

The crux of the matter: the more time people save the less they have. In reality, the time saved is lost to them. Instead, the Men in Grey consume it themselves in the form of cigars made from the dried petals of the hour: lilies that symbolise time. These cigars are vital to the Men in Grey. Without them they cannot exist.

Momo, however, remains resistant to the Bank’s agents and their attempts to bribe her. The Men in Grey pull out all the stops to take care of Momo and derail her from thwarting their scheme, but they fail.

When even her closest friends fall prey to the Men in Grey and the world is almost fully in the clutches of the Timesaving Bank, the old and wise Professor Secundus Minutus Hora (the mysterious “Trustee of Time”) decides to take action. He stops time, which brings the whole world to a standstill, and asks his tortoise Cassiopeia to fetch Momo for him. Once arrived at his Nowhere House, Professor Hora equips Momo with an hour lily that gives her exactly 60 minutes to travel beyond the boundaries of time, and sends her off to overcome the thieves of time.

And I hope I don’t spoil it when I tell you that the story has a happy ending. Naturally. It is a children’s’ book - that still is a most suitable reading for grown-ups. As mentioned above, the story is not only beautifully written but also laden with symbolisms that easily can be translated into all areas of life – may they be personal or professional. The formula that impressed me so much as a child and that I allude to herewith can be found within the following original passage that I will also use to conclude, hoping that I made the book palatable to those among you who haven’t heard of Momo yet.

'You see, Momo,' he [Beppo, the street sweeper] told her one day, 'it's like this. Sometimes, when you've a very long street ahead of you, you think how terribly long it is and feel sure you'll never get it swept.' He gazed silently into space before continuing. 'And then you start to hurry,' he went on. 'You work faster and faster, and every time you look up there seems to be just as much left to sweep as before, and you try even harder, and you panic, and in the end you're out of breath and have to stop -and still the street stretches away in front of you. That's not the way to do it.'

He pondered a while. Then he said, 'You must never think of the whole street at once, understand? You must only concentrate on the next step, the next breath, the next stroke of the broom, and the next, and the next. Nothing else.'

Again he paused for thought before adding, 'That way you enjoy your work, which is important, because then you make a good job of it. And that's how it ought to be.'

There was another long silence. At last he went on, 'And all at once, before you know it, you find you've swept the whole street clean, bit by bit. What's more, you aren't out of breath.' He nodded to himself. 'That's important, too,' he concluded.

"Time is life itself, and life resides in the human heart."

"And remember, the belly of the whale is laden with great men"

An Ode to London

Saturday, I was lucky. I was lucky because it rained – in a fairly adamant and persistent fashion that very loudly called for the roofed version of evening entertainment.

In London, there are for sure a great many rain-proof places to take refuge during the absence of summer but there is only one place that the sun personally retreats to to hibernate: the Old Vic Tunnels, the vaults that not only carry Waterloo station but also a good deal of damp and artistic atmosphere. Home to productions, performances and installations of all kinds, the tunnels never released me un-amused and neither did they last Saturday.

Motto of the night: Slapdash - a theatrical improvisation event.

With no expectations and an absent mind, I took my seat and the spectacle began. 5 minutes later, my mind had returned to the here and now and was drawn into the spontaneous and unpredictable nature that is inherent to the art of improvisation.

I am not a critic. I am not a native speaker of the English language. I am a euphemist. And I am unpretentious. But I am the audience.

In this particular case, the audience couldn't have been more aroused and entertained.

On stage, most versatile groups and different characters indulged in a combat of words and breathtaking speed. Smartly and swiftly the Thespians wielded their whetted swords and jumped almost belligerently at the instructions of the goading conductor who skill- and willfully changed and directed the course of the performance.

My personal favourite of the evening: The School of Night.

But this comes as no surprise. I have always fallen for the somewhat eccentric and alchemical wordsmiths who unlock the magic of words with the suave manners of a cavalier and dance on my simple soul to leave footprints of inspiration that I want to cut out and carry along forever.

The School of Night is a troupe of actors that combine mindful and shrewd literacy with a well-rehearsed style but in the end it was the surprising and spontaneous attribute of this night as well as the sheer concentration of verbal and artistic elegance that made me fall in love.

When I left the Old Vic Tunnels that night and walked through the rain-swept streets, it became apparent once again that London might not be a home but that it doesn't have to be for the above and many other reasons. After all a wise head once said:

"And remember, the belly of the whale is laden with great men".

And so I say thank you to the School of Night and look forward to further dismantling this city into small pieces of delight.

http://www.theschoolofnight.com/

Perspective in a nutshell

Good Morning. What does it mean when somewhere on the other side of the world night is setting in.

Luck. What does it mean when somewhere down the road a pitfall could be lying in wait.

Sorrow. What does it mean when at some point it will have worn off.

Latitude. What does it mean when it is intersected with longitudes.

Fear. What does it mean when it can be sedated.

What does it all mean.

Nothing to some.

Everything to others.

And a dash of indifference for those who have made friends with the absurd.

Nothing. What does it mean when it was built upon conviction.

Everything. What does it mean when it is riddled with loopholes of qualm.

Indifference. What does it mean when it is selective.

What does it all mean.

What does it all mean. When there is a perspective to everything.

What does it all mean. When there is no perspective to nothing.

Perspective. What does it mean when you can put things in and out of it.

Absurdity. What does it mean when it makes sense to you.

Objectivity. What does it mean when you are being objective subjectively.

Dimension. What does it mean when you are foreshortening in a box.

Past. What does it mean when you are capable to forget.

Present. What does it mean when it turns into a memory the second you touch it.

Future. What does it mean when time isn’t linear.

Time. What does it mean when it is merely a concept.

Perspective. What does it mean when it is subject to your grasp.

It means that everything can be put into perspective.

Even perspective.

“Consider well the proportion of things. It is better to be a young June-bug than an old bird of paradise.” ~ Mark Twain (Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar)

A chicken won't change its spots - Pt. I

A couple of months or maybe even years ago I found myself stuck on a train with two peculiar strangers. I had met none of them before. Both figures that had been imposed on me by by father fate that day were blank sheets and yet full of sustainable impressions as I would later see.

On our joint journey from A to B, my fellow travellers and me were mostly hiding our voyaging faces in phones, books and behind thoughts or closed eyelids in polite and appropriate silence, and only rarely a pair of eyes furtively wandered across the compartment to spy the land and catch a glance of the others in the room.

The discrete and subdued gestures reduced the scenery to such minute proportions that are typical for those kind of moments that we share with unknown people in confined space, those moments in which silence and constraints of space set the tone and create a human density that yields just the right ambience for serenity and contemplation.

The second class compartment contained six seats but only three of them were taken - with me being the lucky one to have an entire row to myself, my reserve and travel utensils. The two gentlemen opposite me were hardly what I would describe as noticeable or striking but neither were they unattractive or unpleasant.

The young man sitting opposite right to me in the direction of travel and next to the window looked fairly tall although lolling into the corner like an overly cool student parading his indifference and laxity in the class room. The fine lines around his eyes were clear proof of the fact that his schooldays were probably long gone but his attitude and posture still clung to more than just one complex of adolescence.

He seemed utterly absorbed by his frequently humming and vibrating mobile phone, and his two hands scurried nimbly over the miniature keyboard barely allowing themselves to pause in between. His slightly glassy and red eyes seemed glued to the happenings on his phone and barely showed a wince. Once or twice he looked up to catch my eye and a certain coquetry emerged from the so far anonymous ground between us. And while the train rattled obstinately along the track I couldn't help but wonder which kind of mobile conversation he was engaged in.

The person sitting next to him was an elderly man who had a bald head, which strangely contradicted the full and snow-white beard that adorned his wrinkly face. His moustache was interspersed with a couple of isolated dark brown hairs that seemed to be the only witness of his faded youth between the grey and white bristles. The man read a book and a pair of rimless glasses slipped down his nose whenever he turned a page. I didn't manage to make out the title of the book but I am sure it was rather amusing since every now and then a friendly and somehow familiar smile escaped his otherwise composed countenance.

I don't know why but for some reason old people have always made me sad. Even if they smile or probably because they do so. Whenever I face the graciousness and contentment of age, I turn into a sniveling sentimentalist who has just learned that life won't last forever.

And so I found myself torn between my attempts to philander with the man to my right and the compassion I unsolicitedly felt for the gentleman to my left when the train abruptly came to a stop in the middle of nowhere with no station in sight.

~ to be continued ~

danger [ˈdeɪndʒə]

Danger is a condition. A state in which the potential and imminent implications of a risk or threat are turned into the actual exposure to peril. Whereas risk provides opportunities to take counteractions and precautions, a person who is in danger is directly exposed to the possibility of injury, loss or damage. Risk is controllable and dirigible. Risk can be eluded, restricted. Danger, however, is a little less lenient. Danger is evil.

And the evil can wear most diverse gowns. Today it may appear as the incarnate portrait of the depraved, dressed in the black cloak of human malice. Tomorrow it might dance impetuously around the corner as a smug beau called cataclysm.

No matter which of the forms of evil may afflict us, one thing comes always with it: its draconian grip, its relentless breath that it blows into our defenseless necks and the stifling severity of its company. And to make it even worse, evil is probably the smartest symbiont we can find. Its host? Human vulnerability. Death. Eliminate the latter, and the evil will die a wretched death itself. No death, no danger. No danger, no evil.

Personally, I can live with the brothers Danger & Evil as long as there is no human intention behind them. Natural catastrophes? Well, what can we do? Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. Accidents? Drive carefully. Wear a helmet. Mind the gap. Illness? Quit smoking, and stock up with the greens. And, last but not least, add a good dash of luck.

When it comes to the human form of evil and the danger attached to it, however, I lose my footing. To me it remains uncertain if the Homo Malignus cultivates the images of its selves to serve the ideas we have of it, or if it has established itself within them as one of its numerous identities.

Nothing is more dangerous to a human than mankind itself. The tables have long turned. The Homo Sapiens is the hunter, not the hunted, and the comprehension of human fears and anxieties alone can stage the cruelest barbarities. Someone who is able to relate to the effects of a disaster, can create the greatest calamity and terror we can possibly imagine.

And yet or maybe because of the above, we remain the only species to thrive on the kick that comes with risks. We are lucky enough to look at the world through a kaleidoscope of humanity and to live in cultural, moral, political, social and economic civilisation, and thus we have systems at hand that help us control risks to such an extend that only rarely we face situations of danger.

We are relatively safe which is why our subchallenged brains creatively create all sorts of innovative anxieties. We are afraid of clowns, butterflies and germs. And every now and then the adrenaline junkies among us indulge themselves in a bit of risk. No risk, no fun. Ego trips to the land of adrenaline, serotonin and endorphins. High speed, great heights, long distances - only to dangle on an alleged string (or a parachute) for a couple of highly thrilled moments, in which our bodies recreate the cocktail of hormones that once helped us to survive - back when we were the hunted and a middle link in the food chain.

All in all, it is clearly evident that most of us are so privileged that the lack of danger lets us crave for risk, and that the common collocation of the terms risk and fun doesn't sound depraved in our silken ears.

Danger is a condition.

Danger is a condition that I have been conditioned to fear.

Fear is something that I have been conditioned to fight.

So, to me danger is something that shall be fought.

Danger is a state - but shall not become a state of mind.

"Life can be magnificent and overwhelming - That is its whole tragedy. Without beauty, love, or danger it would almost be easy to live." ~ Albert Camus (An Absurd Reasoning, 1942)

I never believed in Groundhogs

It is Sunday and I have a plan.

Tomorrow I will thwart the groundhog's bestial plans and paint the canvas inside the never changing frame with ever changing colours.

And even if the record jumps over the same scratch over and over again, I will have space on the break.

I will put on another record, I will close my ears.

Come on, let's get stuck with the beat, stuck with the beat.

Let's press "refresh" and freshly restart.

Let's pave the road with prophecies that will fulfill themselves.

And if we don't like what we see, let's run away.

What we don't see, shall not see us.

The blind might be overlooked by the dynamics, that are way too dynamic these days.

And even if the milk for the morning coffee will be sour one day, our mood won't ever be.

And I will be happy to only have two feet, and on them I will wear my own shoes.

And I will be happy to only have one self to be aware of.

The other selves have to be aware of themselves.

And some day, I will build myself a parallel universe without an orbit.

And I will sleep at daylight, with three closed eyes.

And I won't sober up since nothing will be sobering.

And the treadmill will tread in vain and into empty space.

And I won't ever again stand still. Down times ruled out.

And I will only stay at places that are windy and breezy.

And should I stumble across monotony, I won't flip but flip the pages of the street map.

And I will get as old as the hills that I climbed,

and when I am 86, I will sit down next to you and we will decide that we never liked beer and move on to champagne.

For immediate attention

My dear Athena,

I address you today as I hope to fall on sympathetic ears with a fairly dubious matter.

As the guardian of wisdom, I am sure you agree that some things make more sense than others and that some don’t make sense at all. Still being the compulsive rationalist that you left behind last time we met, I tend to prefer the simple cases that can be justified and explained without cognitive compromises and pretexts.

Deductive reasoning has always been my walking stick, and paradoxically as well as logically it also is the spanner in my works.

“There are phenomena that can’t be explained” to me is no valid argument. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. The only phenomenon that leaves things unexplained is insufficient brain capacity. And I am sure you won’t argue with me about that. But if you do, please don’t expect me to be convinced. My opinion is firmly nailed to the grounds of my conception in this instance, and the only person that could make me change my mind is myself.

I must confess, however, that lately I have been under some self-induced pressure for failing to offer an explanation for a certain occurrence. Absurdly enough, I am not lacking an explanation for something nonsensical but for something that is extremely sensible. At least, or rather exclusively in an emotional respect (which might be the cause of the problem). This something simply feels right, it instinctively and intuitively makes sense – very clearly, although my reason holds at least ten counterarguments in each hand. But for some reason or another, my emotions prove to be more stubborn than usual. Or maybe they merely turned deaf in a state of shock as they won’t listen.

So I decided to resign for now and place my bet on you and your marvels.

Hoping that I won’t fall victim to the same fate as the little liked Cassandra and believing in your skills, let me do a desperate prediction. My emotions will soon come to senses, I prophesy. My emotions will soon fold and quit, I predict. My emotions will soon admit that they were mistaken. For it just doesn’t make sense. It can’t make sense. It mustn't.

Since, really, how much sense does it make that a solar eclipse taints my sanity more than the innumerable days of sun? How much sense does it make that something became present inside myself so unnoticeably that it was able to hook itself deeply into the walls of my consciousness with barbs as strong as titanium? How much sense does it make that a lightweight dayfly leaves a deeper footprint on my affective membrane than a heavyweight ox? How much sense does it make that something makes so much sense without having any sense? How much sense does it make?

I shall await the favour of your reply and remain

Sincerely yours,

Kalliope

"Yet, mad with zeal, and blinded with our fate,

We haul along the horse in solemn state;

Then place the dire portent within the tow'r.

Cassandar cried, and curs'd th'd unhappy hour;

Foretold our fate; but, by the god's decree,

All heard, and none believ'd the prophecy."

~ Aeneid 2.323, Virgil