Letters

Whenever I send an sms or a BBM or a Whatsapp message or an email or a letter, I imagine my words to be a little envelope of me. I see myself being sent, travelling over miles and reaching you in an instant or in a few weeks only. And because some part of me has left, I expect an answer.

Perhaps that is what happens in relationships, in friendships and with far away family members: because we don't communicate effectively, because what I think my little envelope contains is not the same as what you take from it, because we can read something differently from how it was meant, because we do not all think the same way things can get confusing.

When I write a message, I am reading it out loud in my head, stressing certain parts and leaving intonations out at others. But since you cannot read my voice, I don't know how we can effectively communicate, ever.

I am/ was often accused of saying what I think without reflecting on it, of being rude because some things are not meant to be said and of being too sarcastic. It was/is probably true. I am trying to think more about what I say and how it affects others, but then I would expect the same courtesy. It is easy to judge others if one sees no fault in oneself.

Ultimately, I want you to know what I am saying and I want to understand correctly what you mean. Otherwise, what is the point of communicating at all if it is just a jumbling of meaning.

Feelmuseum

Croatia has a Museum of Broken Relationships, which exhibits the remnants of failed loves. By contributing to the museum, a person might get over their loss and hardship through creating something new: it is understandable, relate-able art.


The museum's site states:


"Whatever the motivation for donating personal belongings – be it sheer exhibitionism, therapeutic relief, or simple curiosity – people embraced the idea of exhibiting their love legacy as a sort of a ritual, a solemn ceremony.  Our societies oblige us with our marriages, funerals, and even graduation farewells, but deny us any formal recognition of the demise of a relationship, despite its strong emotional effect.  In the words of Roland Barthes in A Lover's Discourse: 'Every passion, ultimately, has its spectator... (there is) no amorous oblation without a final theatre.' "


If you have anything to contribute, be it shoes, a lock of hair, or a love letter, you can find the information on their website.

maybe a champagne bottle, like this one from a Turkish woman. 

This is the exhibit at a mall in Istanbul. Check out the New York Times article 

I wonder if parting with an object truly helps. But one must admit that most people are hoarders and cling to anything that they see as representative of an experience. Just think about the rise and rise of digital photography: we have a need to document every moment of our lives to make sure that we do not miss something. But I think that in capturing the moment, we miss being in it. I would rather have the memory of an instance than an image to which I have no real relationship. maybe we do not trust our memory enough. Memories can be changed and altered, memories are made by your own selection as to what to save and what to discard. 


I like these sad stories. It proves that we all share the need for love, that we all suffer at the hands  of love, but also that there is hope for moving on. For seeing the relationship for what it was: a period of time, an experience, but not something to pine after for years to come. 


There is a nice BBC video about the travelling exhibit, watch it here.



Perhaps the museum will bring its treasures to your doorstep soon. Perhaps your own object will be exhibited, or perhaps you can relate to those on display. In the end it is all about appreciation and love, is it not ?!  







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over achiever

Sometimes I cannot handle the weight of my own expectations. Sometimes I think I cannot do something, cannot achieve what I have wanted, cannot get past a failure. Sometimes the self-doubt is greater than the totality of a wondrous ( wander-ous?!) life.

Sometimes I make the mistake of seeing me the way you do, and then I think this is all I am. Sometimes you make me feel like this could be me:

Use the truth as a weapon to beat up all your friends
Any chink in the armour an excuse to cause offence
 ( from the Swell Season's In These Arms).

But after wallowing in self-pity, I think most people move on. There is nothing else to be done. Change what you can, but do not become obsessed with the things you wanted to do but never could. With losses and disappointments. Either try again, or try something new. There is plenty more you could excel at.

Today might be slightly to personal to share with the Internet. Today I am emo without the excessive fringe. Today I feel betrayed by circumstance. Today I feel like the uncontrollability of existence is too overwhelming. Today I am Carrion Comfort ( Gerard Manley Hopkins):

NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me	5
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,	10
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

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desertion

Edited 21.06.2011 : I made a space error in the English translation

I assume we are all afraid of being left alone, of being deserted. We love in order not to be alone. After all, our species is not one for solitary confinement. We could not have evolved without the help of others like us. You always need someone to watch your back. We need family and friends and the one to affirm the worthiness of our existence.


So perhaps that is why we have belief in something, in what people see as God. It seems to me that we turn to belief when our belief in humanity has failed us. When we have been deserted by our equals. This idea of something more is what we turn to when immanence is not good enough. (KM jy sien ek doen my leeswerk:)


So here is a poem by Paul Celan. He was in a concentration camp during the holocaust, but survived. You can google his biography. I think that must be hard: to believe so much in a culture that deserts and worse, tortures you. That kills your family. And then the oppressor's language is still your language, too. It is still your mother-tongue somehow. It is still only language you know that can fully express your pain. And say what you want about the German language, say that it sounds harsh, mock the schhhs, say that it is ugly to the ear, but you must admit it has the most precise vocabulary. It has the most beautiful words.

Paul Celan - Todesfuge

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends
wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts
wir trinken und trinken
wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne er pfeift seine Rüden herbei
er pfeift seine Juden hervor läßt schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde
er befiehlt uns spielt auf nun zum Tanz

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern singet und spielt
er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau
stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf


Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen
Er ruft spielt süßer den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft
dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng


Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken
der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau
er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er hetzt seine Rüden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft
er spielt mit den Schlangen und träumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland

dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith


the english translation is here


Here is another one that I love. Use it for the one you love.


Ernst Penzoldt - An deiner Seite


Ich will
an deiner Seite
still
über beschneite
Wege gehen,
tief in das unbekannte Weiße,
und alle Spuren sollen hinter uns verwehn.
Dir werden Flocken leicht im Haare hangen,
in Deinem Lächeln sich verfangen,
in blauem Atem glitzern und zergehn.
Du bist so leise,
als könntest du verstehn,
daß wir schon lange nur auf Flocken schreiten
und endlos fallend aus den Ewigkeiten
ins Grenzenlose sanft herniedergleiten.


I couldn't find an english translation, so here goes:

At your side

I want
to walk
at your side
quietly
over snowed-in paths,
deep into the unknown Whiteness,
and all traces must blow away behind us.
Snowflakes will hang lightly in your hair,
will be caught in your smile,
will glint and disappear in blue breath.
You are so quiet
as if you could understand
that we have been walking only on snowflakes for a long time

and endlessly falling from the eternities
gliding softly into Infinity.

Have an inspired week


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