I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees

[...]

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

from Every Day You Play, by Pablo Neruda

and when i'm at the lodge, and not engaged in conversation at the bar..

i find myself meandering through cyberspace again, moving ever further away from the open Word document in my task bar, and discovering new, to me, unknown worlds, of lyrics, of poetry, of mythology and mystical 'heresy'.

i'm not sure whether it is my state of mind or heart, but the random function on my latop media player seems to be churning out not-so random tunes.. a few songs it keeps throwing at me, and, as they are pleasant and pull at my at-the-moment-not-so-joyful heartstrings, I allow myself to indulge, and even dream up meaning in the lyrics or associations that the songs put forward.

some examples:
from the earthly John Legend with his 'I don't trust myself with loving you' (thanks Haim for sending me that and sensing some possibility for identification..)

Hold on to whatever you find baby
Hold on to whatever will get you through
Hold on to whatever you find baby
I don't trust myself with loving you

I will beg my way into your garden
I will break my way out when it rains
Just to get back to the place where I started
So I can watch you back all over again

..to repeatedly pushing a more ethereal Branford Marsalis 'Reika's Loss' off an album called 'Eternal'. Marsalis himself apparently said that this collection of ballads 'is an expression of emotion... In particular it's about the expression of melancholy. [...] All of the songs reflect the idea that there is beauty in sadness" and the reviewer goes on to say "Eternal is the perfect compliment for pensive moods. An excellent soundtrack when you are musingly thoughtful and a welcomed friend when you find your spirits depressed. I recommend it for rainy day afternoons of contemplation when you want to shut out the outside and immerse yourself inward."
How does my media player know? I think i may be spending just a little too much time with my laptop.

Another time it throws songs at me that i don't even know are on there, where the sound and melody intrigues me and triggers a search for further meaning. So it was with Nick Cave's 'Nature Boy'. Variations on:

And she moves among the flowers
And she floats upon the smoke
She moves among the shadows
She moves me with just one little look
She moves among the sparrows
She floats upon the breeze
She moves among the flowers
And she moves right up close to me

are lovely enough, as is:

Years passed by, we were walking by the sea
Half delerious
You smiled at me and said, Babe
I think this thing is getting kind of serious
You pointed at something and said
Have you ever seen such a beautiful thing?
It was then that I broke down
It was then that you lifted me up again

but what got me investigating new lands was the following:

Later on we smoked a pipe that struck me dumb
And made it impossible to speak
As you closed in, in slow motion,
Quoting Sappho, in the original Greek

Who was Sappho??
So i looked up Sappho, and was mesmerized by the fragments of her poetry that remain to the world, sometimes just fragments, just two or three words here and there, but such a rich history of myth and lore, of Love and suffering, of passion and fire, with poets like Lord Byron, Ezra Pound, Baudelaire and others enthralled by her being and her words. how is it that i was never consciously aware of her until tonight, and came to her so indirectly?

Then through reading various references for Sappho i stumbled upon a French mystic, Marguerite Porete, who was burned at the stake in Paris in 1310, for a work of Christian spirituality dealing with the workings of Divine Love..
here we go again i thought. What's been getting me in this pensive melancholy mood is exactly that - Divine Love, and wordy discussions and misunderstandings on the same. Moving from Eros or sexual love to Divine Love, whatever that may be, however it may feel, and if ever it is possible between lovers infected with the supremacy of erotic love in our times. Although Porete's writings and beliefs have a distinct Christian focus on God's love (as appropriate to the times she lived in, exploring in poetry and prose the seven stages of 'annihilation' the Soul goes through on its path to Oneness with God through Love), it nevertheless resonates with Barry Long's conviction that love (and love-making) between man and woman, the divine way, leads to spiritual union which is the manifestation of God/Love on earth.
Uncanny timing.

This is where I am now in my journey, sailing from song lyric to ancient poetry to medieval christian mystical texts, and i am amazed at what i encounter, how it all resonates, and how little time i take to let myself flow to distant themes, words and writers in my 'normal' life. Yes, it feeds my melancholy, but it also feeds the fire. The fire of my imagination, the fire of my longing for knowledge and inspiration, my desire to understand and practice what is beautiful and good, and to grow through it.
But yes, I agree, the danger is that i get too caught up in words, in the realms of my head and imagination, that my spirit wants to soar, and that my unrealistic expectations will end up chaining me to the ground.

Enough for now. I really should turn off my media player.
A song just came on that goes 'Gravity is working against me, And gravity wants to bring me down ... Just keep me where the light is, Just keep us where the light is.'

Where is the light?

Some first impression from the days spent here..
The conversations on the first night back brought me back to what life is like in Zambia. Snippets of those conversations, usually with Prince behind the bar at the lodge, other underpaid but lovely lodge staff, the regulars imbimbing their double whiskeys, and the taxi drivers, make a big impact on me when i hear whats happing in normal (read: non ICT4D) Zambian life, but then other conversations and work take over and the nuggets of reality fade from my focus.

Learning to read
Prince for example, the young barman who has stuck it out at Chita Lodge longest of all, who has turned into a friend over the years, sharing stories and questions, discussing life in 'the West' vs life in Zambia, romance, books and family matters, was telling me about his struggles in sustaining not only himself and his little daughter, but also his brother and his brother's wife who he has been putting up at his house. We were talking about his daughter who seems to be lagging behind in school. With Prince being caught up at Chita all day and night for work (under inhumane working hours and inhumane salary conditions), and the mother of the child no longer being in the picture, there hasnt been anybody to help his daughter with doing her homework and studying after school.
'What about your brother's wife?'
No, his brother's wife is illiterate, she doesnt know how to read or write. She has recently come from 'the village' to the city, and doesnt have any means of income. In the city if you can't read or write, there is little you can do. You cannot even read the signs all around you, the names of stores, the paper, you name it.
'Since your daughter is in grade 1, wouldn't it be a good opportunity for your brother's sister to learn how to read and write along with your daughter? tracing the letters, doing the excercises..'
No, she doesnt seem to want to learn. Plus, with the hierarchy here in Zambia, elders dont want to be seen as knowing less than the youngsters. Loss of face. In fact, she wants to go back to the village, she doesn't like it in the city, she doesn't do anything.
'Why doesn't she go?'
My brother doesn't want to. He feels that life happens in Lusaka, not in the village.
'What does you brother do?'
Nothing. He drinks and watches TV. He can't get a job, doesn't even try. Stays out and doesn't come home at night, and drinks a lot'
'How does he pay for it?'
I don't know. In fact, just yesterday i got really angry with him. He stays in my house, he and his wife are my dependants, and he does nothing. But he doesn't want to go back to the village.

of Poison & Gangrene
did I hear of Andrew's sister dying? Yes, Yese told me on the phone. He also told me that she died under strange circumstances..
Yes, her liver and her kidney apparently stopped at the same time, she was dead within 4 days.. Now how does that happen? it can't be a natural death, still nobody knows. People say she was poisoned, i never trusted that husband of hers..
You serious? Would her husband really do that?
You know men here in Zambia.. she was doing quite well professionally, was very independent, went her own way most of the time. And he wasn't doing very well, jealousy and consuming too much..
I'm so sorry for Andrew.. it must be hard..
Yea, but then life is like that, a few weeks, months and you forget. Well, you don't forget, but..
Sas, you were hear when my mom passed away right?
Yes, i heard.
Well, she died and i was sad, but after a few weeks, well maybe four months, i don't think about it. Only in the beginning did she come to mind, mom - oh no, mom is no more. she's gone.
How did she die Prince? I've never known..
Ah you know.. we don't quite know. what is it called? Gangrene or something? I think thats what it was, i'm not a doctor.
Gangrene? Like the infection in the feet spreading up through the blood?
Yes, we tried to get her treatment, but the doctors didn't do anything. I took her to see a few doctors, but nothing was done (knowing Prince's miserly salary, this must have cost him fortunes).
One day she was feeling really bad, so i put her in a car to take her to UTH (University Teaching Hospital), i knew we had to hurry, i could feel it. On the way there I looked back and there she was in the backseat, dead. Her eyes just staring and her head leaning against the side window (he imitates the position of his dead mother against the taxi window on the back seat).

[Comment from other guy sitting next to me, who has been listening in on the conversation] yea, gangrene, and what's that other one that people are suffering from more these times.. gout? Yea gout, Zambians eat too much red meat.. ha ha..

Prince and other guy laugh about Zambians and their love for eating meat, I am silenced by the reality of these diseases, and the incessant unnecessary deaths that permeate life here.

Sort of Books, Scandinavian Shortstories and My Friend Tom*

Today i've been travelling without moving. I haven't moved a limb, apart from my fingers. And the images flooding my mind-scape.
Images of the simple scandinavian country side, remote islands dotted in between the Swedish, Finnish and Baltic mainlands, simple lives, removed from the clutter of daily distractions. Tales of two women friends, opposites but complementary, living, working, talking and sharing. Written in beautiful simplicity, prose leaving out the unnecessary clutter and giving us readers direct access to lives lived and lives shared.
For those of you that love short stories, or those of you that want to be transported, read a few chapters of the following collection of short stories that together make up a novel. Sometimes i wish i could write like that, more times i wish i could live like that.


While you are on the premises of Sort of Books, have a peek at Tom's latest work to be published. Tom Bullough, talented young writer, part-time recluse in the Welsh hills, of college days shared history, of Whirlygig-, dub-in-halls-, Staines house-, and Babe&Babe-associations to my blotchy memory of those distant times, fellow appreciator of Southern Africa and African music, i can't wait to receive my signed copy of The Claude Glass, orderd from my Zambian hotel bed just a few moments ago. Meandering through his website, he doesnt appear to have changed a bit.

I still have an image of the river Wye on my computer which i downloaded after receiving an email from him years ago by now. His description and admiration inspired such curiosity for this wonderous landscape, i couldnt resist to match his words with an image. Plant a small cottage anywhere in the image to the right, imagine a paraphene lamp, and a writer immersed in secluded ceative work, floating down the river in warm weather for relaxtion, and ploughing through fields covered in meters-high white snow, climbing over frozen wooden gates to reach the cottage from the far-away road in winter.
That's how i've been storing him in my memory and imagination.

ilan, maybe he is someone to consult on the Art of Publishing? Presuming that publishing from the Welsh countryside bears any resemblence to publishing in the Melbournian metropole?

*inspired by Ant's repeated mentioning of Her Friend Mark, as if 'Mark' alone and her stories of their friendly adventures did not suffice in identifying the person in question

Cleaned up for public display.
I looked at those around me,
And when they looked at me,
I let them see my soul that day.

Are you scared of it?
Do you wish that it would stop?
Does it bother you
when you hear your spirit talk?

(neil young)

that little place between a smile and a tear

tears slowly filled my eyes for the beauty of the sound and the atmosphere created, a smile stretched increasingly further across my mouth, creeped up my face and joined the tears in my eyes. what exactly happened inside, how the music and the artist touched my heart and soul, is not describable. i doubt i can even tell how it really has touched me.


Toots, exuding love, from the moment he came on stage, refusing to speak through the microphone and honouring the audience by simply beginning to play. after a few tracks, which had been met by emotive and wonderous silence, when he did chose to speak, his voice was weak and his breathing sounded difficult. Yet when blowing into his harmonica, his 'whistle', there was no sign of weakness, of a long life lived, no 85-year old Toots who told us that he started the year depressed and somber, and now would not cease to bubble with charming anecdotes, stories, jokes, high-fives and hand-kisses sent to his adoring band members and the audience.

The Amsterdam city backdrop, with its soulful orange lights lighting up rainy streets and old houses, completed the feeling of participating in a movie soundtrack - i could vividly imagine romance seeping through the dark and deserted streets, the night-owl couple stealing through the cobblestone streets, stealing past canals and over small bridges, soaked by the incessant raindrops and warmed by eachother's loving touch and glances. My mind would wander and create moviescapes, local and familiar and heartwarming, to Toots' soundscapes.

I have been to few concerts that have evoked such emotive dreaming, such pangs of the heart by pure and nostalgic sounds, such adoring appreciation for an artist who, at 85 years of age, can blow into his 'whistle' and transport you, heart and mind, to such a special place, between a smile and a tear.

On Sailing through Tides, Ebb as well as Flow

in the midst of trying to find my way in these man/woman relationship issues, the below seems to address a few snags obstructing my truthful path. It sounds so obvious, I've been reading and underwriting such a vision of relationship for years - in theory.
In practice, I stumble.
By putting it here, and reading and re-reading, I hope to stumble less and stand stronger.

The Flow of intimacy i something i continously seek
Why do i need its nourishment so?
Why, when it temporarily ebbs away,
do i lack faith and allow doubt to reign?

When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity - in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.

The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation, but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now. Relationships must be like islands, one must accept them for what they are here and now, within their limits - islands, surrounded and interrupted by the sea, and continually visited and abandoned by the tides.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh 1906 - 2001

Words and Pictures bring forgotten Zambian grandmothers to Ireland
by Sir G

Gareth, of A-Land-Just-Short-of-the-Sun fame, has had his words and photographs published in the Irish Times weekend Magazine, so so deservedly so.
Congratulations Gareth, may the good work done by the project recive bountiful goodwill and support through readers' responding to your words and pictures.
Don't ever stop.

New York's Not My Home

Well things were spinnin' round me
And all my thoughts were cloudy
And I had begun to doubt all the things that were me

Been in so many places
You know I've run so many races
And looked into the empty faces of the people of the night
And something is just not right, 'cause I know
That I gotta get out of here
I'm so alone
Don't you know that I gotta get out of here
'Cause New York's not my home

Though all the streets are crowded
There's somethin' strange about it
I Lived there bout a year and I never once felt at home

I thought I'd make the big time
I learned a lot of lessons awful quick
And now I'm tellin' you
That they were not the nice kind
And it's been so long since I have felt fine, that's the reason
That I gotta get out of here
I'm so alone
Don't you know that I gotta get out of here
'Cause New York's not my home

-Jim Croce

(for all my good friends who made New York their home, have since left, or are still waiting to leave.. thanks for all the good times there, and remember to leave when the time is right)

on guitars, memories and LPs for 1 euro..

I hadn't put the cd on for a while, I have never owned it, and I always associated it with long car rides in my dad's car. Having a new love in my life is making me want to look back over my shoulder, identify what inspired me and share things that made me dream and feel alive. And that's what brought him back.

Recently i saw the cd in the stack of many others and put it on, half embarrassed to look at my-new-love-in-my-life, fearing the possible reaction to my exposé of being moved by sometimes-soppy songs, played by men-with-guitars, a lot of Americana, a little bluegrass, and a lot of longing. Yet upon hearing some of the songs again, i was yet again moved by his straight forward tell-it-like-it-is lyrics, his humanity and honesty, and humour.
A good dose of Jim, the right dosage to trigger yearning for another long roadtrip, enough to trigger longing for far-away friends and past cross-continent adventures, memories of the days of lying in bed and listening to lyrics, and sharing our emotional appreciation of sweetness and nostalgia through looks and smiles and silences.

While far away at a conference recently, i downloaded some of the songs from that distant past, and sent one to my love-in-my-life as a show of affection - across the atlantic, across timezones, hoping to be connected by timeless music.

Upon returning to Holland, I found myself floating through streets filled with small children with faces painted orange, marching bands that looked like they came straight out of a Tolkien fantasy, drinking rosé and and smiling back at the sun, sitting on a tricycle with the warm spring air enveloping me and more rosé in my veins, when suddenly my love-in-my-life appeared, yet again a couple more LPs richer, picked out of all the junk being sold to anyone who will stop to have a look - one LP of which was the man with the guitar, and the music in his blood. Jim Croce.

And such is life, for years you don't hear a particular music, you forget - the music and your own memories, dreams and longings. Fast forward, and you have your love-in-your-life pop around the corner with a big drunken smile on his face and a 1 Euro LP of your history in his hand.

Jim Croce - find, listen, open your mind, and let yourself be rolled along, rolling down the highway, so life won't pass you by.

I recommend to start with: I Got a Name, New York is Not My Home, I'll Have to Say I Love You in a Song, Time in a Bottle, Operator, and Which Way are You Going? for some anti-war and pro-reason sentiment, as relevant today as in Vietnam-day methinks..

Why dó the good ones always have to die young?

Access 2 Knowledge

I was lucky enough to be invited back to speak at the Yale Law School's Access 2 Knwoledge conference in April this year. A bit of hectic travelling, flying in and out of the States just for this conference, after all was worthwhile.
With last year's post-conference stop-over stint flooding my memory cells, this year was basically a weekend of sitting in grand Yale auditoria, listening in on policy panels ranging from issues as diverse as new internationalised domain names (I.D.N.) for teh internet, to Brazil's flourishing homegrown music and media market, which has nothing at all to do with large record companies, big promo budgets or copyright laws.

Surrounded by spiffy Apple iBooks, and ubiquitous wifi, at times I wondered whether i was the only one listening, I mean *really* listening. All non-speakers appeared so caught up with simultaneous parallel activities such as checking and answering emails, surfing the net, sending immediate contact and follow-up emails to interesting speakers - it made me wonder what price is paid in terms of attention and participatory discussion after such panels for always-on access to internet and personal mobile computing technology.



It was good to be back in an academic environment once again, exposed to policy makers, researchers and practitioners from a dazzling diversity of disciplines, mainly joined by a common interest in enabling access to information to realise basic human rights as agreed to in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. I will be posting more on this on the work blog, so won't get into too much detail here.
I did find that many of the discussions seemed rather far removed from the daily work that educators or health care workers do in 3/4 of the world, and that policy making that is currently going on at WIPO could use a larger injection of real world needs.
Thank goodness the wavemakers from Yale's Information Society Project think the same :) let's how we can bring this new social movement home.

So that's a little bit of what I've been up to of late, for those that may be wondering..
There is more to come, I'm home for a good two weeks, some of that time really should be spent blogging..

in a fundamental way

her name was theresa
she would float into me,
crawl into me in the water
and i would melt.

i poured a bit of water on her head,
i told her she was a flower and now she could grow

with every bit of water i sprinkeld on her,
she stretched her little body and grew
with every time she emptied her small watering can on my head, i grew

we grew and grew, and didnt tire
her softness - in word, skin and demeanour - touched me in a fundamental way

street conversations, in spring

tough boys on park bench: hey girl, can i ask you a question?
girl: sure
tbopb: how is it that you are so beautiful?
girl: (smile) I'm not sure. God/Allah must have done it
tbopb: (smile)

girl: can i ask you a question?
tbopb: ....
girl: how is it that you ask such sweet questions?

thanks Ousseni (and thanks Bob) for reminding me today of the simple truth

Not everything that glitters is Gold

as much as i am enchanted by Glitter, I want to be and go for Gold

ok, this is it

never saw it around consciously before, and today saw it twice within the hour! loved it the first time, and the saw it again!
s'gotta be a sign!:)

something to save hard earned money for (ahum)

and/or something to visualise/will into my life? :)

and after cruising in Kim's newly acquired beautiful simple-but-oh-so-stylish racing(?) green on the outside, dark brown leather interior, Porsche 911 just now, i have a lot of will!!

Can you picture it?

Lore of the Snake
The image of the snake has arisen in my life recently and set me to wonder about its symbolism. Thus far I didnt get much further than the practical Tuareg/Niger interpretation that when you meet a snake on your path, or should you be bitten by one, it indicates that a child is coming into your life, or that you might fall pregnant in the near future (hoping that the snake bite wont be the end of you..)
My current favorite reading gave me a lot more the other night, in Ilan's words, it appears the book is coming to meet me, meet my needs..
Follow me to the lore of Africa and Australia, and let me know any (symbolic) association you have or know of with snakes.. my comments box is eager for your thoughts!

"In Nigeria, in many countries of Western Africa, in Mozambique, Namibia, and Natal, there is a story of a great serpent that brougt the Earth Mother to this world, and how that snake was shooting rainbows out of its body. In Western Africa they say that the Godess travelled through the world in the mouth of a great rainbow serpent, creating mountains and valleys and stars. The serpent is sometimes depicted as a great Python. The Vedaps of Northern Transvaal say that it was this python who first taught men and women how to make love.
You see, sir, it is very different from the book of Genesis, in Judeo-Christian culture, where the serpent is the principle of evil (and i think they don't like sex very much either, sir, if you dont mind me saying so). But in African Mythology, making love is one of the greatest of blessings, and so we say that the serpent is the source of blessings, not of evil. He is called Nyoka, 'the instructor'; and so the serpent is identified as an 'expert', the one who knows what is going on, what the truth is.

Likewise I know that for the Australian Aborigines, there is a great rainbow serpent who is often encircling the Earth or bringing the people special blessings, and i also know their sangomas,who are called 'clever men', ride on the back of this serpent, or climb up on rainbow serpents to enter the heavens or the upper realms (Footnote: Such serpents, called brimures, play a very active role in Australian shamanism and may be introduced into the body, or extracted, and are important in initiations).
So in the legends of of the Australians too the serpent is a very benevolent creature, and not at all to be equated with anything evil. "

(p.155, Zulu Shaman: Dreams, Prophesies, and Mysteries; Chapter 6: The Common Origin of All Humanity)

A Child of the Universe
baba ziad favourite song, and the lyrics are well worth posting:

I'm a child from South Africa
I'm a child of Vietnam

I'm a child of Northern Ireland

I'm a small boy with blood on his hands.
Yes
I'm a child of the universe

Yes
I'm a child of the universe -
You can see me on the TV everynight

Always there to join in someone else's fight.
I never asked to be born
I never asked to die

I'm an endless dream
a dream-machine that cannot reason why.
Yes
I'm a child of the universe

Yes
I'm a child of the universe -
You can see me on the TV everynight:
I'm the child next door 3.000 miles away.
I'm a child from South Africa
I'm a child of Vietnam
. .
I never asked to be born
I never asked to die
. . .
You can see me on the TV every day:
I'm the child next door 3.000 miles away.

7 Maart - Zo lang naar uitgekeken
Een paar weken in Nederland en het voelt als of ik er niet veel wijzer op wordt.
Nu, na het concert van Branford, alleen op weg naar huis voel ik me verdrietig, en toch ook weer niet zo verdrietig als verwacht. Ik ben blij dat ik naar huis ga, m'n eigen ruimte in. Als ik nu bij jou zou zijn - ja, wat dan? Mischien hadden we dan een kans gehad om te praten, om dichter bij elkaar te komen. En wat als niet? Dan zou ik me nog slechter voelen. En niet weg kunnen.
Je leek weer hard, je zachtheid was weg. Niet alleen naar mij toe, maar in het algemeen. In afwachting van de muziek, over de politiek. Bart ging tegen je hardheid in, ik niet. Daar had ik geen ruimte voor. Als ik liefde voel en ontvang, dan kan ik er grappen over maken, er speels mee om gaan. Maar nu niet.
Ik kijk naar buiten, het liedje dat ik je heb gestuurt gaat door mn hoofd, en ik voel verdriet. Veel verdriet. Ik snap het niet. Wat is er gebeurd? In jou. In mij.
Ik wil niet rondhangen tot dat jij me weer ziet, weer voelt. Daar hebben we de basis niet voor. Ik ben al bang genoeg, voor hoe dichtbij je komt, slapende angsten worden wakker gemaakt. Paniek, al die stemmen in mijn hoofd, al die onzekerheid. Ik vindt het al zo moeilijk om los te laten, om er op te vertrouwen dat dit goed is, meer dan alleen 'goed voor mij'. Los te laten en een manier te vinden om te geven, te ontvangen, en mezelf niet te verliezen.
Ik zie een man en een vrouw twee rijen voor ons zitten in de concertzaal, zijn arm om haar schouders, zij helemaal tegen hem ingezakt, zijn hoofd rust tussen haar hoofd en nek. Ik denk wel de volledige 60 minuten lang.
Ik kijk uit het raam en zie een jongen die zijn meisje met stevige armen oppikt, van de grond af tilt. Weer op aarde drukt ze liefdevol haar wang tegen zijn borstkas en blijft lange momenten zo staan.
Ik denk aan ons en hoe natuurlijk ons kontakt was, die eerste avond toen we van de boot afkwamen. Ik stond er toen niet bij stil, maar we konden niet van elkaar afblijven. Het viel me toen niet zo op, maar ik wou niets anders dan in je kruipen.
En ook daarna. Thuis, op de grond voor de bank. In Rotterdam. De eerste keer in het Bimhuis. Het eerste weekeinde bij jou, bij de fotos voor de Stopera, in de Engelbewaarder.
Kan het dat dat nu allemaal al weg is? Waar is het heen? En waarom?
Ik wil in dat gevoel groeien, het meenemen. Het hoeft niet allemaal zo uitbundig, maar ik wil gevoed worden, ik wil voeden, niet hongerig verlangen en dromen.
Een dronken man achter me in de supermarkt zucht en zegt tegen de kassiere dat hij in de war raakt van me, betoverd is door mijn lijf en mij. Hij volgt me nog even, zuchtend probeert hij mijn aandacht te trekken. Jij zegt de hele avonds niets liefs.
Ik kan niet naast je zitten, ik kan niet naast je liggen, als er geen ruimte in jou is voor mij.
Het is een slecht excuus om weer te gaan roken. Maar het voedt me. Een whiskey bestellen, naar Tom Waits luisteren die rauw uit de speakers komt, voor me uit staren en schrijven. In een mij bekende omgeving. Mijn eigen ding doen. Waarschijnlijk een vlucht, maar minder pijn.
Het is laat, It's Closing Time, 7 Maart zit er op. 8 Maart is begonnen. Ik ga naar huis.

A friend's mom's bumper sticker:

uproot a Bush,
plant a tree

Although not quite poetry, worth sharing. Go Nynke's mom.

That old Vienna feelin...
different years, different age group, different experience altogether - yet the nostalgia feels the same. Imagine, i had the kid sister of my one time (short time) boyfriend/romantic interest add me on MySpace the other day. Not only was he a year younger, she must have been 5 years younger than him. and still we are connecting, all connecting. the vienna feeling.

a friend said to me the other night - 'i am decidedly unnostalgic'. I am definetely not.
Living in the past isnt all that good, im sure. Investing emotion now in events and moments of the past. Can't be good. Yet when the past appears as special is it does, is it better to let go and forget?

On Idols & Missing the point
(orignially written as a comment to a Firefly post)

never touch your idols, the gilt wil rub off on your hands?

or should we refrain from idolising altogether? we know better than to invest such expectant adoration in human beings, fallable beings.

To love, and not to put another on a pedestal, thereby creating distance, and no longer standing level footed on common ground.
To love, and not to allow intimidation by the perceived perfection of idols made by your own hand, heart and reverence. and insecurity.
To love.

In wise books of old, idolatry is a said to be a Sin.

I dont believe that 'idols' in the gnostic sense refers to statues of silver and gold, that are worshipped above an external allmighty god, but rather any being or object that you put higher than the godliness in yourself.

I don't believe the orginal meaning of 'sin' is "transgression of the law of God (1 John 3:4) and rebellion against God (Deuteronomy 9:7; Joshua 1:18)", but rather in its original (greek?) meaning to refer to "to miss the mark, or "to stray from the path".

And that makes sense to me.
By placing someone or something else above your own Godliness (see Krishnamurti and so many more) you miss the mark, you are bound to stray from the path to self-knowledge and truth.

We shouldnt idolise others, its not good for us, and its not good for those on the pedestal. When they fall off, either by their own doing or by the other's unmet inflated expectation, its hurts. On both sides.

When both parties idolise the other, for whatever reason, as has been known to happen, it can only lead to pain.

I have over the years created a large part of my identity around someone i have idolised, and with sustained physical distance, i have kept the idol on the pedestal, and polished and polished and polished her shine. it has increased my reverence, and decreased my comfort to share daily earthly human fallacies; it has increased distance and insecurity on my part, and decreased the truthful and realistic foundation for friendship.

I don't want to idealise or idolise.
I need to learn to work with what's real.
Because what is real is good, and has enough godliness in it to feed my need for reverence and beauty.

Brave country
(from an email from a friend who works for the dutch ministry of foreign affairs)

"It is grey but not too cold in Kabul. Our armoured Mercedes takes us to the hotel.
On the way a woman crosses the street in a blue bhurka right in front of the car.
“Brave woman” I say.
Then a dog crosses, equally close: "Brave dog" I say.
Then a family of three crosses and makes it against all odds.
“Brave family” my colleague Viola says.
Then our Afghan driver smiles and says: “ Brave country.”
Those words alone were worth this trip.

ben's humour, priceless

lost tribes

a melancholy in the eyes, a recognition.
an almost stranger, a familiarty.

'i believe in lost tribes' he said, people that belong together, people that recognise it in eachother. age doesnt matter, people that have lived full lives, of long full years, younger people, without similar marks of time on their soul. yet somehow, we seem to belong to the same tribe.

biological families are different. you build those with mates that are your opposite in many ways, that way you bring forth socially viable progeny. socially viable progeny.
but others connect to you differently, strangers, by picking up on a look in your eyes. a sadness. a melancholy.
distant yet recognisable.
instant comfort. instant connection. a member of your lost tribe.

nothing wrong with opposites. the world needs socially viable progeny.
its a noble venture. i want socially viable progeny.
but i can't do without my tribe.

did you find a member of your tribe in paris like you sensed you would?

trust or faith?

what is vertrouwen? what is Vertrauen?
trust or faith?
what did i take with me, what intention did i speak out loud.
what did i mean.
and where has it gone.

i said it on sunday afternoon, i felt it on sunday night.
i felt it on monday morning, and it took me places.
i lost it on monday night. i wept for it on tuesday.
i forgot about it on wednesday.
i moved on on thursday.
i longed for it on friday.
i spoke about it on saturday.
i put it behind me on sunday.
i missed it on monday.
i could relativise it on tuesday.
its making me sad again today.

i closed my eyes and thought about trust.
i picked a card. random.
it was Trust.

That which can be taken away from you is not worth keeping, and that which cannot be taken away from you... why should one be afraid of its being taken away? It cannot be taken away, there is no possibility. You cannot lose your real treasure.

The Truth of Cards

On Saturday night I chose a card from the stack - it was 17. Silence. And it was perfect.
I had come back from Ghana, I had been quiet on the ride home, I hadnt felt the need to speak, I hadnt felt the need to be present by way of conversation. I was on the boat, and the exercise made me long for silence, for concentration - the chattering and laughing of fellow seekers was irritating me. Yet i could let it go - I heard it, and could not hear it. I could stay here and now, and concentrate. And lose my irritation, and leave that with them.

A little later that night, i picked this card.
"the energy of the whole has taken possession of you. You are possessed, you are no more, the whole is. This moment, as the silence penetrates in you, you can understand the significance of it, because it is the same silence that Gautam Buddha experienced. It is the same silence that Chuang Tzu or Bodhidharma or Nansen.... The taste of the silence is the same. Time changes, the world goes on changing, but the experience of silence, the joy of it, remains the same. That is the only thing you can rely upon, the only thing that never dies. It is the only thing that you can call your very being." (Osho Zen: The Diamond Thunderbolt Chapter 1)

Commentary: The silent, mirrorlike receptiveness of a star-filled night with a full moon is reflected in the misty lake below. The face in the sky is deep in meditation, a goddess of the night who brings depth, peace and understanding. Now is a very precious time. It will be easy for you to rest inside, to plumb the depths of your own inner silence to the point where it meets the silence of the universe. There's nothing to do, nowhere to go, and the quality of your inner silence permeates everything you do. It might make some people uncomfortable, accustomed as they are to all the noise and activity of the world. Never mind; seek out those who can resonate with your silence - or enjoy your aloneness. Now is the time to come home to yourself. The understanding and insights that come to you in these moments will be manifested later on, in a more outgoing phase of your life.

The next day we spoke of relationships, of ideal partners. We shared and we recognised the obstacle that is the concept of 'ideal'. I spoke of my longing for a shared existence, not in all aspects, but just the basics - participate with me in my dreams, when i talk of the moon; participate with me in work, when i explain my reality. Listen and be interested. Participate, just a little, and I will be open.

Later during a break, with the theme of ideal partner/relationship in mind, we drew another card. I picked 4: Participation
"Have you ever seen night going? Very few people even become aware of things which are happening every day. Have you ever seen the evening coming? The midnight and its song? The sunrise and its beauty?

We are behaving almost like blind people. In such a beautiful world we are living in small ponds of our own misery. It is familiar, so even if somebody wants to pull you out, you struggle. You don't want to be pulled out of your misery, of your suffering. Otherwise there is so much joy all around, you have just to be aware of it and to become a participant, not a spectator.

Philosophy is speculation, Zen is participation. Participate in the night leaving, participate in the evening coming, participate in the stars and participate in the clouds; make participation your lifestyle and the whole existence becomes such a joy, such an ecstasy. You could not have dreamed of a better universe."(Osho Zen: The Miracle Chapter 2)

Commentary: Each figure in this mandala holds the left hand up, in an attitude of receiving, and the right hand down, in an attitude of giving. The whole circle creates a tremendous energy field that takes on the shape of the double dorje, the Tibetan symbol for the thunderbolt.
The mandala has a quality like that of the energy field that forms around a buddha, where all the individuals taking part in the circle make a unique contribution to create a unified and vital whole. It is like a flower, whose wholeness is even more beautiful than the sum of its parts, at the same time enhancing the beauty of each individual petal. You have an opportunity to participate with others now to make your contribution to creating something greater and more beautiful than each of you could manage alone. Your participation will not only nourish you, but will also contribute something precious to the whole.

there are many lessons to learn here for me
much karma that might be coming back my way
jealousy i might have caused in other women
a role i might have played in creating longing for me in men whose women were then made to feel insecure, about their men's love for them, about their own worth, about the ever present battle between attraction based on externalities, and value based on the inside.
its coming back to me now, and as i feel hurt and sad, images thoughts and memories come to mind in which i surely will have played a part in causing hurt and sadness in other women, consciously or unconsciously.
i had always thought that, since i wasnt doing anything on purpose, since was just being expressive, confident, strong, enthusiastic, lighthearted and such, i wasnt flirting or trying to seduce, that the responsibility then lies with the men - that they should keep their attraction in check; that they should consider the women they made committments to, that they should be strong and conscious of whats going on inside them, and to manage it. I didn't want to take responsibility for it, and I still don't think that would be right. To make oneself different or smaller or less enthused by life and conversation, to 'save' the other? Because I have known and felt this genuine way of mine to be attractive to some men, to then stop being genuine?
Men feel attracted to confident, strong, inspired women - yes. And there are many strong wonderful women out there that inspire flights of fancy in men without intending to do so. I know a good many of them myself - beautiful women, in & out, cream of the crop. Should we therefore stop being ourselves? No. The men are responsible for their own flights of fancy, and the consequences thereof. The men should be clear and strong and aware.
And now it happened to me.
Do I blame the girl? No, I saw it happen. She did nothing. She was simply strong and extrovert and bubbly.
But the gnawing question remains, where is karma in this?

i am sure there are also lessons for me to learn about ego, about losing ego or not letting it make an issue bigger than it is, about not letting ego rear its ugly head, and when it has already done so, not to let it keep its claws in my mood or state of mind.
letting ego go, paying it no mind, killing it by ignoring it. i know that you keep alive whatever you feed, and by feeling upset and hurt and jealous, i feed ego.
and i know thats not the way. i know better than that. but still im doing it.
how easy things are to read, to understand, to think about and recognise their truth and value, and then when it comes to applying, the more basic human behaviour takes hold, takes posessesion, despite knowing how it works, despite recognising what is going on.

a book i read while in ghana says that recognising what is going on while it happens, being cognisant of unconscious behaviour when you slip into it, that awareness is the most important bit. its the beginning of change, of coming out of unconscious behaviour to being present, conscious and aware. I am aware of it, so i hope that one day ill be able to let go of ego entirely.

and for the sadness that isnt caused by ego but rather by fear, or is it fear caused by sadness - i need another wise book. Suggestions?

Here comes Ghana (in the words of the sports commentator)
What a night - Bob Marley's birthday and the Ghana-Nigeria game..
and Frieda's birthday, and the start of lady dee's birthdat across the other side of the world.
so many reasons to celebrate, the births of such wonderful people, the stars are promising in this alignment and one should congratulate any new lucky parents :)

after a hot first half that didnt bring home any goals for either side, the great dreams that my temporary fellow countrymen had for the greatness of the Ghana Black Stars did not look promising. 2-1 was the prediction, Sherif had seen it in his dream. I wasn't going to go see him for any sangoma practices..

while swaying gently to some liberation rhyme and rythms, watching denise network her way into the jamaican ladies club, suddenly the first cries of joy of the second half. many raced to the tv screen, the jamaicans stayed put. chatting. not long after another cry, perhaps louder and more sustained. and then more again!
Ghana 3 - Nigeria 0.

~ yoepieeee Ghana Black Stars ~
~ yoepieeee bob marley ~

the thick bass continued to throb, the melody carrying us higher, and the score better than anyone had been expectin.
Laryea Kingston 50min, Sulley Muntari 53min, Junior Agogo 60min made it 3-0 for the stars. Taiwo Taye pulled one back for Nigeria in the 65 minute through a penalty kick, before substitute, JoeTex Frimpong, put the result beyond doubt with a fouth goal in the 74min.

What a night. What fever for the Africa Cup of Nations which Ghana will host in January 2008. I have seen the transformation of the dusty town of Tamale, with it new stadium towering in the bright sunlight high above any other building in town. Ghana, January 2008. Block your calendars. It'll be hot.

Oh and of course, its Ghana @ 50 this year!!
Happy Birthyear Ghanaaaaaaaaa!!!!

There's no poetry between us
Said the paper to the pen
I get nothing for my troubles
But the ink beneath my skin

Yes, it was full moon.
(Thursday, October 26, 2006)







Yes, it was the Palace of a former Warlord, Palazzo Colonna
(family history here)

Check Check.
Though many other questions yet remain unanswered.

Presby's Makin it Work

Up front: What I'm about to say is not founded in thorough research and not meant to inflame the usual heated debates around religions and streams within same religions..

But a conversation triggered me to ask more questions to myself, read up a little more on something I knew nothing about, and kept me intrigued since.

So I will share my intrigue publicly, or well, with my captive audience, since this isnt quite the CNN or Al-Jazeera website..

I was having lunch with staff from a Ghanaian organisation that we work with, which is an association of church-based development projects. They asssist church stations, often located far from district towns or urban centres, who in trun work with rural communities to improve agricutural practices, health services, social services and the like. The association is open to all church-based development projects, and thus has a variety of members - some catholic, others evangelical, other methodist, others presbyterian and so on. Not being familiar with the many differences between the various streams - some significant, others less so - I wondered whether this hub could see whether any of the streams or denominations were more successful at their development programmes than others.

Suspecting that this was a tricky question to ask, i nevertheless wanted to know. So asked it. (I'm an Aries, don't blame me..)

I could tell by my partner's hesitation that there was something to tell, but he was reluctant, understandably so. My one lunch partner subscribes to the catholic church, the other methodist.

The catholic admitted that he could see a clear difference, at least when it comes to the agriculture/livelihoods programmes.

The Presby's take the cake.

The level of professionalism and success of their programmes stands high above similar programmes set up and managed by other churches.

Hmmmm. Now. Why may that be so? What is it about the Presbyterian church?

I don't know the first thing about it, so your thoughts are very welcome!

Some excerpts from the great wikipedia might point to some root causes, although I'd have to investigate all the other streams and compare them in these stances.. (triggers those Phd juices in comparative belief systems again..)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Presbyterian

Local congregations are governed by Presbyteries made up of representatives of the local congregations, a conciliar approach which is found at other levels of decision-making. There are therefore no bishops in Presbyterianism. The office of elder is another distinctive mark of Presbyterianism: these are specially commissioned non-clergy who take part in local pastoral care and decision-making at all levels.

Presbyterians place great importance upon education and continuous study of the scriptures, theological writings, and understanding and interpretation of church doctrine embodied in several statements of faith and catechisms formally adopted by various branches of the church. It is generally considered that the point of such learning is to enable one to put one's faith into practice; most Presbyterians generally exhibit their faith in action as well as words, by generosity, hospitality, and the constant pursuit of social justice and reform, as well as proclaiming the gospel of Christ.

Could the inclusion of non-clergy from the community in the council of elders, and the focus on community well-being aspects that are not necessarily a product of faith in the Christian church (generosity, hospitality..) have anything to do with it? How is this then different from traditional forms of governance, where such council of elders do include persons to represent different aspects of community life and their general common objective is the socio-sentient well-being of the community?
If these are conducive elements in the Presby structure and objective of the church, and they are not or less present in the Catholic, or Methodist, or what-have-you churches, and if these elements are comparable to traditional governance structures.. then can't we assume that working in a similar fashion with traditional societies could have produced similar results? I'm cutting many corners I know, but I am always wondering to what extent the imposition of Western religious (or now non-religious) structures on traditional ones is necessary to achieve what we aim to achieve.
And so i keep going round in circles.

An interesting small book to read about relationships in traditional communities in West African (Dagara) society is this, reminding us that relationships are often not chosen by ourselves, but rather brought about by spirit because the combination of two people have something to offer - not just for ourselves, but for the community, for the world. this relates not only to partners we chose, but to our friends, our family, our working relationships etc. Next time you wonder why on earth this person came into your life and stayed, think back to spirit. I'm not sure what the Presby's woudl think of that though. Unless spirit is god and god is spirit.
I'll stop here.

Full moon
Friday, beginning of February 2007, tonight, will be the first full moon that I witness consciously in this new year. I couldn’t escape it Wednesday night, my first night back in Tamale, this dusty provincial town, when the night approached, and the receding daylight allowed the majesty of the moon to be seen. Without looking for the moon specifically, I was drawn towards it, big and milky white, rising slowly above the Harmattan wind, that has swept up sand and dust from the desertous arid lands in this part of West Africa, and transported it over thousands of miles, heating it up during its travels, causing sneezing, dry throats, and an ever-present layer of red powder on clothes, faces, motorbike and taxi seats, plaguing the residents of these lands.

I wish I were as sensitive to the presence and the cycles of the moon at all times. It had escaped me when encircled by the hustle and bustle of Accra, with its non-stop traffic and built up surroundings, I suspect I never even looked up at the African night sky all those nights I was there. She catches my eye every now and then while coming home late from the office in the hague, walking between the tram stop and my home, past the old oak trees in front of my house, just before I slip into my door and leave the outside world behind me for another night.
Here however the moon caught me and didn’t release me for a while. Seeing her close to full but not entirely, I investigated when she would be full, or if that was a moment that belongs to history already. Tonight, Friday, February 2nd. 2007 she will be full and white and beautiful.

I want to experience the full moon more consciously, more deeply. I wish I were born into a society in which ritual plays a larger role. A moment in which with full awareness and appreciation, you set to pay homage – to a relationship, to spirit, to a longing, to thankfulness. To invest time in planning, preparing, getting excited, getting anxious, executing, and remembering ritual. There are so many events, influences, beings and objects of nature, people – some still with us and some departed for other cycles, that I would want to connect with through ritual. Yet, having been born into a part of the world and a time in our collective evolution in which ritual as an everyday part of life is a thing of the past, I avoid bringing it up, for fear of not knowing what to do,

and for fear of ridicule.

Instead I resort to planting seeds in my dear ones’ mind, being far away and sowing my longing via text messages, at safe distance from having to directly experience ridicule.

The day after tomorrow, Friday, the moon will be full.
Shall we agree to meet here, in Tamale,
And sleep in the warm outdoors,
To hold each other,
And stare at the moon and the stars all night?
Perhaps to make love in the moonlight,
And pay homage to the mysticism of the moon goddess?
Our own ritual of love, imbibed by the strength of her power,
Oh what beauty I would find therein.

the universe conspires
once again
following on from meeting baba ziad that night in the palace
from Ténéré comes the next piece of code
something bigger than ourselves unfolds
i hope i can be strong and wise enough to play my part

written during nairobi - amsterdam night flight..

i close my eyes and imagine myself
walking up your steps, not mine
it'll be early, daylight wont disturb
the romance for another few hours.

i imagine myself lying on your carpet
your house warm and inviting
the heat of your shower and
your smile looking through the bathroom door.
though time is scarce and reality awaits
and commonsense would dictate another course of action,
my returning to my house doesnt offer the feeling of sanctuary
that following you to yours does.
candles and caresses
and a good dose of your skin
the january cold will be biting
nothing but warmth within.

No is comfort, Yes is adventure
Read this and re-found a truth that i had know, and wish to live.
Thanks ilan.

heard while in a taxi to chita lodge, my home away from home:

When I asked my 12 year old daughter to do me one more favour, she said Sure mommy, what is it?
I want to ask you to go for VCT (voluntary counselling & testing) , if you want to that is, to know your status. As hard as it that was for me to ask her, so lightly and easily she responded: Sure mommy. I'll do that. I would be proud to be just like you. Positive. I hadn't expected her to respond like that. It moved me deeply. What's more mommy, I know now what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a doctor. Then I will be your doctor and care for you.

all I could do was look out of the window on the passenger side, breathe deeply and hope Soko wouldn't say something to me that required a response. I wouldn't be able to hide the tears welling up in my eyes and the big chunk of emotion that blocked and pained my throat.

(note: the picture is of Mercy, a Zambian girl that Ilana found, and that was lost to our joint care shortly after when her mother left the shanty town they lived in, and took Mercy with her, leaving Ilana no forwarding address)

Mistaking dependancy for romantic notions
Hoping at every text message received that it is from you. and then it isnt. and then i feel sad. and off I go thinking about you again - about our words, about our differences, about the current lack of understanding.
The real-life messages and their senders dont get my full attention, the Here and Now fades into the background. It's dark outside, its been raining torentially, plots on the right side of the road have water gushing out from under the gate as if pipes have broken in each basement of every house. On the left the fields are flooded, driveways are unpassable, people and cars are stuck, unable to reach their homes.
With me in the little van are three new team members that i hadnt met before today. I have all the opportunity in the world to talk to them, ask them a million things, quench my thirst for learning about all their experiences, knowing all about the project's advances, challenges and lessons.
Instead i stare out into the wet darkness, think about you who are a million miles away, and feel sad. I don't engage with what's around me - as soon as the official discussions are over, I no longer delve into knowing more about, and meaning more for, the project. I retreat into hoping for communication and enter pictures and dialogues in my head, drifting away from reality.
That's not romance, that's dependency.

he says 'go turn inward, yes, that would be good'
i know its true, yet its difficult to hear.
why?

the sun is slowly setting, the mosquitos are starting to bite, a leisurely saturday in Southern Africa.
The rains are refusing to come through, apart from a few drops while driving to the airport picking up our european visitors.
hours upon hours spent behind the building, shoes off, hiding from the sun, heated by the hotspot. no cables, fast speeds, millions of words entering my head, from australia to southern africa, shielded by the straw roof of the traditional insaka.

complexity increases. i look around, and see pumpkin leaves, wood and straw. i open my ears and hear the tinny sounds of Bob coming from laptop speakers which arent mine. i open my mouth and am spoken to in dutch by a dark young african man. i go to look at photos and end up perusing many people dressed in white - i dont know where and i dont know why. But i keep looking, page after endless page.


I call soko, 'do you remember me', he will take me to my home away from home, i will shower, i will consider all the work i wanted to do today which i didnt do, i will feel bad, i will rush because i am late, and i will have to switch my brain to Education. Teachers. Lesson plans. Training. Technologies. I feel the sigh rising. I want to go to bed and read, but i left inspiring books at home. I have too much work to catch up on. Or is last night's wiskey with Sir G catching up on me?
Ilan, I love you.

snippets of reflection

always a feeling of recognition in the sounds and words of L. Cohen
yesterday a feeling of identification, bringing me back to the need to delve inside

' [...] you know that i love to live with you, but you make me forget so very much
i forget to pray for the angels, and then
the angels forget to pray for us [...]'

i need to return to the pearls that happened across my path
i need to write and reflect, and write a letter
'Dear Ziad...'
knowing that i am neglecting what i had just started to find

magical numbers of the soul contributing to bringing me back to me

1 + 4 + 8
13
1 + 3
4

A special number, not the average. not 4 , but worthy of keeping the original

13 / 4 set on this world to continue the work of earlier incarnations
13 / 4 my solutions come from a combination of inspiration, creativity and practical action
13 / 4 be wary of being dogmatic, being fanatic and wanting too much
13 / 4 learn to relax, to let go
for my own happiness and that of the world around me