575


575, originally uploaded by Carlos Noboro.

it’s one of those days…

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Yes, it has been one of those days so far. I thought that it would all be different, and that one day I would wake up all grown up, an adult. Somehow, it was not meant to be.

This week, or last week – I tend to forget exactly when – I got a wonderful long e-mail from my son in reply to another, perhaps not so long and not so wonderful e-mail from me to him. His wisdom and wit, to say nothing of the clever turn of phrase, do get me all content thinking that perhaps I did not totally screw up when it came to his education and upbringing. After all, I was fully responsible for that one. I had sole custody since the divorce from his father. From the age of four to 18 he lived with me until he decided that it was time to go west. But the way he has turned out is not all my work.

There was no way on earth that I could have done it all, although I often felt that that was exactly what was expected of me, to do it all. Educate, nurture, cook, bake, launder, nurse, earn money, formulate the GUT, discover the first graviton, earn a Nobel prize, and while I am at it… what was the other thing?

I had lots of help raising my son. His Swiss grandmother stepped over her own shadows and was my right hand when it came to taking care of him, going skiing, or making tough decisions about boarding schools. She never particularly approved of my methods or way of thinking, however she had the generosity of spirit, even when tact often failed her, to want to be part of of her grandchild’s life in spite of the very impossible mother that the child had. But she was not the only person that gave a hand. If I had to make a list, it would be a long long list. I am grateful to all who have shared in our lives.

I have been quite anxious, and still am quite anxious about a few issues in my life. On the surface, on most days, it all looks calm. Other days, nothing looks calm, and I am a total complete mess, chaotic, disorganized, impatient, and frustrated. The combination can sometimes be called aggression. When, like last Friday after an strenuous Aikido training where I got to hit the tatami without mercy and at full speed quite a few times, my body is so throughly massaged and soft, that all that frustration evaporates and I have a few hours of clear thinking ahead, then I do get some work done.

After that, it starts all over. I look at the pile of what there is to do, the list of good intentions, the wants, the desires, the needs, and it all gets muddled again. For distraction I zap through a few programs on zattoo, look at the twitter timeline a few times, check my RSS feeds, read a few lines here, a few lines there, take a short breath of fresh air in the garden, do the laundry, or read. But then the reading reminds me again of all those great ideas, I make more notes, I write some more. A few hours later realize that I am hungry and do not feel like cooking, much less like going out to grab a bite to eat, look around for anything to eat, drink a glass or water, and eat a banana or make a salad in a rush. I just have not cooked much recently. I still do not feel like eating much. I am still in some upper excited state. I need to relax.

The zapping through various television programs was instructional at one level and extremely dismaying at another. I can not stand to watch a talk show longer that 30 seconds, it is boring. News are not only boring but removed from reality. Anchor men tell of tragedies and sensations sounding cadaverous and emotionless, like lifeless cyborgs of a very primitive civilization. The story telling in series center around either pathetic fantasy, murder, betrayal, violence or aberration. The films with romantic stories seem shallow and derisory. I wonder on what trip my own perception is these days. This is my world, my culture, and more than ever I feel very estranged. Did I take a wrong turn some where?

The e-mail from my son has however been total bliss. Sometimes it seems to me that those with the deepest and most intimate connections to the own person, are those from whom we can be separated without anxiety. I trust my son to manage his life, and to search within himself for those answers to the questions that only he can have.

I try to take the question about ambition out for a quiet talk in the back yard. Wait until it drops it’s guard, clobber it with a shovel until it drops and bury it. But eventually the ambition police comes knocking on the door and has to know where my life is going and why I haven’t stopped wasting precious oxygen yet. I try to tell them it was a corrupting influence, but they insist that life’s purpose cannot be to vegetate purposefully devoid of achievement.

It is a question that I like to ask myself, what is it that I want to achieve? Only I can answer that.

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