"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

Timeless for a Minute

When the car stops to let her cross the road, her face turns into one of wonder.

How come they see me? How come I am visible to the world outside when I am clearly and utterly so deep inside myself that even to me each movement of my body feels outright ridiculous? How come they see me when I don’t see me? My body carries myself deep within itself, I am the epitome of a human matryoshka, so why the fuck do you stop your car? The outer puppet has a see-through skin, has it not? The outer puppet has no shadow since the shadow has sought shelter inside itself. The puppet has no wings but a windup wheel on it’s transparent back. And when she moves her legs to cross the street, she can hear cogs clutter as they interlink and force the puppet to lift its feet off the pavement. Step by step. Tic. Toc. Tic. Toc. Is it time’s callous hand

that operates the windup wheel? It shows no mercy, this nasty invention of time. Give me a rest, will you? Or treat yourself to one, just lay down for little while, put your feet up and relax. Give me some peace and leave me be, let me be timeless for a minute. Let me be invisible and stroll through the still of a frozen world.

As she turns around the corner and passes a café, the smell of frying fat crawls up her nose and triggers disgust and appetite at the same time.

How come I perceive smells? How come the scents and smells of the outside world reach my brain when my brain is buried under a heavy blanket of scruples?

How come I am hungry when I am fed up with myself, when my stomach is filled to the brim with my own shadow?

While her feet keep on carrying her through the evening that is far too bright for her taste, her overcast eyes catch an incurious glimpse of the grassy leafs of a plant that twitch and flinch hysterically in the exhaust air of a kitchen fan.

Poor thing. It has no chance but to flounce all day and pretend to be alive while clearly being condemned to extinction.

You see, dear Master of Hours and Moments, it’s not only me who is in need of a break. This inferior creature wouldn’t mind for sure to interrupt its morbid dance for a moment or two. Come on, make an effort and pause.

Behind yet another corner of the winding streets of a city that doesn’t need a name, she bumps into a man who is wearing a suit and a tie and feels compelled to curl his lips into a smile before he steps aside to let her escape from his murmured apology.

For goodness’ sake, I am not here, can’t you see it? I am not here! Temporarily unavailable. Invisible. Ignore me. See through me. Just for a day. One day. Invisible. Timeless. Mindless. Heartless. Bodiless. One day out of time’s reach. One day beyond the sphere of logic. One day in a world where one plus one equals zero. One day in a world where nobody blinks and breathes but me. One day. Just one day.

"For the myth is the foundation of life; it is the timeless schema, the pious formula into which life flows when it reproduces its traits out of the unconscious." ~ Thomas Mann