Every once in a while I do question this whole blogging activity. Why do I do this? What does this bring me?
At Lift07 just about anybody half-awake noticed the vivid absence of expressions like blogging, to blog, and other blogware expressions. That was nothing unexpected for me, but I tend to have a distorted vision of technology. I easily get bored with it and I do find it rather primitive. I am rarely if ever an early adopter of any technology – still do not have an iPod – and I have a deep and long running fascination for the traditional. I am also both deeply private and bent on living out loud. I write, and I write under pseudonym – make that two, one of them being known to some of you, the other not – stories that are either based on my own immediate experience, or that are removed in time and space from our own age. Having gained an appreciation for history only very late in my existence, and having began my writing life equally late, I tend to orient myself beyond history, mainly because I am so very ignorant of it, and do my best at informing myself as to what the history of our culture does teach us about humans and our evolution as a species. Who are we?
I have been writing and reading centered around the whole of what Lift and Geneva was, could be, and what the whole has to do with me. Here and in uncondition I have taken on an unprecedented streak of blogging photos where I am one of the subjects. Why?
I am a writer, I write. Describing myself as a writer is a piece of identity, like a name or nationality, and it is one that has taken me a while to own up to it. Owning up to my own wishes and aspirations does not come easily to me, although as an external observer of my behaviour this may not be evident. Right now, I am going through emotional ups and downs that have me on the brink of sanity. I have known these episodes before, I know their discomfort, and I know their rewards, I know how to recognize them and I struggle to manage them and cope with what is the immensity of my being. Clinically speaking, there isn’t a thing wrong with me, but my psyche and ego do take me for a spin once in a while, and often I have this feeling that I know insanity better than anybody else who could have possibly ever have written about it. Eventually I do reign in the fragmentation of my being, and the stillness and quietness of my mind and spirit return. Being mindful during these times is the only thing that there is to do. My cage is being rattled and all I can do is observe, breathe in, breathe out. One breath at a time, I live and die.
Today I find myself once again facing that crystal wall that separates me from my wishes and longings, it separates me from you, it separate me from my life. I remember this crystal wall well from the days when Richard and I had a most intimate phase in our relationship. Now Richard and I talk on the phone once every year or few months, and we have not seen each other face to face since the day when he dropped me off at the Basel train station almost ten years ago after we had shared a few days in Vals delivered to our senses, nature and spectacular architecture. These days our conversations have lost none of the intimacy of those days when we shared all, really all, and the crystal wall is or was but a memory of the constructs of my mind. Richard and I could take on any role in each other’s life, and that we did. When I need clarity, even today, I still ask Richard to coach me and I am consoled and nurtured by his soft voice and the unconditional nature of his love and his integrity. Our separation then brought my being very far from equilibrium. Then I never understood what happened and all the words in the world delivered nothing more than that crystal wall’s unwillingness to shatter or vanish. Beyond that wall there was a whole world of possibility, and through it i could hear the sparking flow of life’s freshness.
Now the crystal wall has returned, and it is not Richard on the other side. It is my crystal wall and I begin to recognize it. You are on the other side and the overflow of words and communication is nothing more than my struggle with that crystal wall of mine. Oh, it is my wall! it has taken me a while to recognize it, for it had indeed not manifested itself for long. I wonder which part of my being, which wound you did touch with your tender caresses that activated this crystal wall of mine. I must heal this wound, it has been open and ignored much too long. I do not want that crystal wall, it is a figment of my psyche, it is the virtual image of a nightmare that separates me from the ecstasy of our being. One and one is still one, and I am frightened by the very sight of such beauty.
This deeply personal and intimate reflection does have to do with what supposedly was a technical conference.