tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4335207133335608222024-03-14T09:41:21.220+01:00lisvochUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-59400948685655147312012-05-13T22:42:00.001+02:002012-05-13T22:42:58.027+02:00Mere Seconds<p align="justify"><strong><font size="1">This is fiction.</font></strong></p> <p align="justify"><i>It happens in less than seconds.</i></p> <p align="justify">This, he realises, is what it feels like to travel inside an ambulance car. Quite probably, the majority of people will never know, for their whole lives, what it is like to travel inside an ambulance car. In this little universe, neatly packed with things to save lives, rescue, cure and prolong for that special stretch of time until the hospital. This is how it feels like; in the middle of traffic but outside the rules, zipping along on the trams’ tracks with sirens and with speed.</p> <p align="justify">Outside, the life of reality is zipping by fast and far away. Like another reality, it is played back with muted sound on the screens of the windows. There are people and their stories, cars and bikes, even birds and a few dogs. Nothing of this relates to the insides of an ambulance car shooting by at full speed. And yet, all of this is reality, and all of this happens in beautiful synchronisation.</p> <p align="justify">A small woman, nearing sixty, with greyish brown hair that hangs in flat, tired waves from her head, crosses a small side street and approaches the entrance of a nightclub. She carries two burlap bags with her left hand, and inside the bar everything is dark and silent. Upon reaching the corner house’s door, she pulls out an enormous bunch of keys and unlocks it.</p> <p align="justify">…</p> <p align="justify">The city is grey and so are the remains of snow, remnants of white now shrunken together in corners and around lamppost. A grey sky above a grey ground, framed with houses in dark and light shades of grey and the air itself in hazy same. One late February day, when winter seems to wane but spring is still a long wait away. And on this one day, in this weather, an ambulance car shoots through the streets, the lanes and boulevards, until it reaches a bridge, long a wide, stretching over the massive river parting the city. With an air of remoteness and farewell, like leaving a place very dear to the heart, the car moves over the bridge, the city’s outlines in the hazy air on both banks and it is with the insignificant movement from one side to the other - crossing the river – that he waves a motionless goodbye to his beloved city and his beloved life, crossing over to that other bank of the river; beyond.</p> <p align="justify"><i>It happens in less than seconds.</i></p> <p align="justify"><i>Rushing along with the traffic and for one little moment caught by the smallest detail of that large painting we call “now”, his front wheel hits the car’s rear and the force of gravity, urging him onwards, lifts him swiftly and carries his body far above the busy road and the many heads and the pedestrian buzz until he, as if gazing backwards with a fish-eye lens at the whole scene, crashes through the shop window and falls unconscious.</i></p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-2340857749635063702012-03-07T19:22:00.001+01:002012-03-07T19:22:26.244+01:00The growth of a project<p align="justify">Interestingly, the desire to write (and write beyond the work on my thesis, at that) does not, as it seems, coincide with my writing on the blog, here. As with many things, I tend to rather procrastinate or, more specifically (since there is no actual focus present, mostly, which would warrant procrastination) just let my unspoken longings trickle into the fog of non-application. That needs to change.</p> <p align="justify">I’m quite busy, lately, which is nice considering the fact that much of last year went by without me making considerable progress on the one project I should and wanted to be progressing on: writing my thesis and getting done with university. Ever so happily, towards the end of last year I was finally able to haul this tottering project back onto the rails of my desk and am now slowly but steadily progressing towards completion.</p> <p align="justify">The interesting situation of writing a thesis in a country different from that of one’s own university (not being in field research but moving away due to personal reasons) has had, beyond causing the momentous deceleration and delay of my work, the very fascinating effect of causing my bibliographical library to be, for the far biggest part, situated at (my new) home. Instead of buying train tickets to go back to my university and access the library in a very limited amount of time, I have again and again chosen instead to hunt down and purchase the books needed for my work. Consequently, the whole project of writing a thesis to finish my studies has become something taking hold much more deeply in my life and concretely, my personal space. Whereas in the beginning I had already feared the moment of nascent fatigue towards any subject I have to spend a long and exhausting time with, this dreaded moment has not come and instead I watch the topic and framework of this project grow on its own in my current life. Therefore I am now rather confident that this focus and, dare I say, ongoing (read: never ending) process of specialisation will continue and shape my life even after handing in my thesis and finishing my studies. As if the thesis I will hand in is less the static outcome, i. e. peak point, of a scientific endeavour, than a snapshot along the timeline of an ever evolving theoretical body. Frightening, as it may seem in one sense, I find this development (that seems almost outside of my own influence) quite fascinating.</p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-63136860797492744072011-11-08T17:25:00.001+01:002011-11-08T17:25:59.700+01:00Autumn and the ending of the year<table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <p align="center"><em>Not to be lonely <br /> <br />Ever since moving here, <br />counting one-digit numbers, <br />one more, one less, on and on. <br /> <br />Dahlias and Lilies blossom, <br />now dried Lavender and violets <br />keep me company. <br /> <br />If only my mute things, <br />all my beauties shelved, <br />where company enough.</em></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p>Autumn is here for good, late as it arrived this year, first time for me to watch the old year shed its colours and fade away here. This year fast approaches the closing of its circle, and looking back I am drawn to take stock of this past almost-a-year, but the hand trembles, I shy away.</p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-15436523666885254832011-10-30T00:04:00.001+02:002011-10-30T00:07:42.365+02:00Sūrnenncarmoraith II<p><a href="http://lisvoch.blogspot.com/2011/09/surnnencamoraith-i.html" target="_blank">(<u><strong>part one</strong></u>)</a></p> <p><b></b></p> <p><b>Sūrnenncarmoraith II:</b></p> <p align="justify"><em>The Brönne, descendants of the ancestor Brön, whom Calenheliddoeg had made half-man half-steed out of long grass and the steppe’s wind, had since their early times been famed as combative horsemen. Holding vast domains, and loving fight, archery, and the wide open plains, they soon began to press against the estranged Sūr’s southern reaches. Although both tribes respected one another’s territories, the tribe of Mon soon yearned yet again for north and more tranquil lands.</em></p> <p align="justify"><em>The green plains north of Nollpyrrh and Lley Allon were lined by a belt of forest that had been a natural and still uncrossed barrier to the Sūr. Lillya and Umrren though, leaders of their people, finally set out into those woods, to find what lay beyond. Already accompanied by her daughter Llaune, Lillya had the sense to feel other peoples’ presence beyond the forest, and as the trees gave way, the leaders of Sūr entered upon the domains of the Bre. These people, Brene as they called themselves, had come down from the north, along Lake Deep, into those lands, driven there by the other tribes of the north. At the feet of the Gelen hill, at the forking of the river Cym, the Bre had settled and claimed this territory, reaching from the great northern forest’s edge to the Aelmyndd mountains in the east and the belt of forest in the south, as their own.</em></p> <p align="justify"><em>For a time, when people were still few and the lands wide, the Bre granted land to the Sūr, coming from the south. There was a silent concord between the people, who still inhabited the lands thinly scattered about, and their affairs were of mutual advantage. The child Llaune was raised up north of the belt of forest, while her parents oversaw their people on both its sides, north and south. Thus it came to be that not only was she cared for by the members of her family and tribe, but also by those of the Bre. Learning from both her own people and the Brene, she grew up to master the arts and secrets of both tribes, as no other outsider would have ever been able to.</em></p> <p align="justify"><em>It seemed, in the time of her youth, that Llaune was to become a bond between the tribes of Sūr and Bre, to unite them in peace. But as the years went by, the girl grew tall, her hair swung long, more and more people of her tribe moved into the northern lands, pressed by the Brönne, who had become increasingly hostile to their former brethren. On the far side of the belt of forest though, in the lands of Bre, the people grew uneasy about all those many Sūr, foreign still, who did not seem to stop spreading in their lands.</em></p> <p align="justify">(to be continued)</p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-11060214574860235362011-09-28T10:32:00.001+02:002011-10-30T00:05:31.609+02:00Sūrnnencamoraith I<p align="justify">What follows here is the history of the people of Sūr, a tribe of the central plains of Līs. Their history and that of their house of kings, the Monenhan, are threads woven in the great tapestry of the world, stretching back over thousands of years.</p> <p align="justify">This being a history of the people of Sūr, names and particular expressions will be left and given in the form of their tongue, the Llalaruën, or more often (as this concerns much ancient times) that of their ancestors, the old language Sūrwōr. Occasionally, Sabluṅ names or short explanations of otherwise known or important names and particularities may be given in footnotes.</p> <p align="justify"><strong>Sūrnenncarmoraith I:</strong></p> <p align="justify"><em>In the early days of the world, the four great Ohamalē, giants of creation and forming, roamed the empty Līs. They were Illa, the colossus of light, Mwlei, colossus of the waters, Ullow, colossus of mountains and valleys, and Rraddoh, colossus of fire.<sup>1 </sup>Wherever they strode, the world formed, fountains sprang, light shone, life flowered. Being of both sexes, each colossus bore no new of their own but offspring different of their parent, so that the procession of life into the corners of the world continued. </em></p> <p align="justify"><em>Rraddoh, giant of the fire of life and parent to all human people of Līs, created a line of six beings. Third of his offspring was Calenheliddoeg, who strode into the central plains and there bore six children that were to become leaders of the six great clans of these plains. Their were to be known as the lady Aïu, lord Laun, the lady Mon, lord Brön, the lady Silaë and lord Korroch.<sup>2</sup> When Calenheliddoeg, so it is said, created the lady Mon, he wove her out of moonlight's silver rays. Thus had he made great a woman, blessed with moon's wisdom and magic; who though was, while stronger still than all humans after her should ever be, weakest among the six clans' mighty leaders. And therefore she, with all those following her, soke the moonlight, rivers and the winds up north, to find serenity and flee the other leaders' harsh aggression.</em></p> <p align="justify"><em>Between lake Lley Allon, mount Nollpyrrh and the mighty stream Maeroch's bends, the tribe of Sūr found fertile lands of grassy plains and green hills. Far off the other tribes, life was good and easy, for a time. People multiplied, and soon after reached the Stormy Sea. Over time, the nomads of old began to settle down; at mount Nollpyrrh's feet, lake Lley Allon's head and at the stormy coast. The tribe of Sūr, nomads of the Central Plains, had begun to turn into families living under thatched roofs. Yet, their calm was not to last.</em></p> <p align="justify">(<strong><a href="http://lisvoch.blogspot.com/2011/10/surnenncarmoraith-ii.html" target="_blank">part two</a></strong>)</p> <p><em></em></p> <hr /> <p><font size="1"><sup>1</sup> Their respective Sabluṅ names are: Iñya, Mūlei, Unuwe, Nāmos. <br /></font><font size="1"><sup>2 </sup>Of Aïu, the clan of Al was formed, of Laun that of Lavelil, of Mon the Sūr, of Brön the Brönne, of Silaë the clan of Min and of Korroch the Gor.</font></p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-64846802862107170762011-06-26T00:46:00.001+02:002011-06-26T00:47:41.083+02:00Sensual Disentanglement<p align="justify">This Saturday marked the joint festivities of the Lucerne City Festival and Lucerne Altstadtfest in one day, topped off by the yearly grand fireworks in the evening. Set over the bay of lake Lucerne, they can comfortably be seen from almost any point along the city’s shoreline, though the real <em>clou</em> is the fireworks being <em>synchronised</em> to music – the latest vogue in fireworks, already old in fact, that has quickly become a must-have for almost any pyrotechnical show.</p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <p align="center"><img src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/34/RoyalFireworks.jpg" width="380" height="289" /></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p align="justify">What, though, of the fireworks? Firstly, I wished I could have seen them, once again, as the very first fireworks I’ve ever beheld. The sad routine of experience and expectation degraded this well done performance into mere flashes of colour, accompanied by their respective thuds and grumbles. Why, I wondered while I tried to open my eyes a little wider than usual, does it have to feel so used, so same-old same-old, when in fact it still is something very special and outstanding to behold? It would have been nice to format that certain memory, before the occasion, and experience the whole thing as a first, again, with respective goose-bumps and day-long remembrance on my retina. I most vividly remember the feeling after my first day riding rollercoasters, lying in bed in the evening, as a child, still feeling the thrill with my whole body, riding the coaster again and again in my head, until I fell asleep.</p> <p align="justify">What, though, of the music?  I am prepared to give Händel his much deserved allowance and excuse for composing such an exquisite accompaniment to fireworks as he did in his <em>Music for the Royal Fireworks</em>, but mid-18th century has been a very different time of perception, at least for me. Then underscoring (royal!) fireworks with music must have been a suitable means of rounding off the occasion and, maybe, enhancing and retouching any shortcomings in the actual pyrotechnics. But nowadays, isn’t it a shame to stand there, already mostly apathetic to true emotional explosions to go with the real-world ones, and have ones senses be further polluted by (on top if it: cheesy) music supposedly in synch with the visuals? Is not one sense and a bit of the rest enough to get us excited? It feels as if we are see-sawing ourselves into more and more of multi-sense pollution to stir whatever emotional response we have for things that much to quickly have become happenings of every-day life and repetition to us.</p> <p align="justify">So I would like, if I may, to invite the though for an imaginary minimalist fireworks. Set on a lake, maybe, or a different landscape with sufficient auditory qualities and a clear view, against the backdrop of a, preferably, slightly hazy night sky (this being an occasion to steal the stars’ show for a while), it requires absolute natural silence from both the audience and the performance itself. No musical underscore, no fanfares, no narration. The audience stands or sits quietly, as in any regular performance and appreciation of (classical) music (yes, coughs and sneezes are, naturally, always included) and all is left for pure fireworks. Solely the sounds of explosions fill our ears, and all else is left for our eyes to take over, take in, fill our minds and foreheads with. Not overly glanderous bouquets of rockets going off to fill the whole scenery, but continuing the minimalist intention, single shots fired, viewed and left their respective time and stage-time. To really take in one thing at a time. Would that not be very desirable, at least sometimes? I very much think so.</p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-68892679443662772302011-05-23T11:02:00.001+02:002011-05-23T11:02:04.414+02:00The lake<p align="justify">This is fiction.</p> <p align="justify"><em>The lake is always there, though it does not form the stage. With a backdrop of snow clad mountains that roll down in hills towards the lowlands, the lake is this momentous’ orchestration’s base, the lowly slowly carrying train, the movements of which are but </em><em>almost inconceivable in the vast scale of their pattern.</em></p> <p align="justify"><em>This lake swells into the town’s bay, its finger stretching, pointing, to the busy shore full of buildings and boats, people and animals, ever restlessly hither-tithering. It gently pushes against the quays and bridges, extending itself through the city, past the shore, into a river; a flow into the lake, through the lake, and from the lake. Ever flowing yet ever resting, the lake is always there, though under its clear surface, this molten sky-snow-ice-glass is never still.</em></p> <p align="justify"><em>A figure stands at the lake, and all around along the shore so many others, walking, talking, inattentive. This figure stands, his gaze rests far out somewhere on the water, drawn out and wide by a longing in himself, a longing that the lake takes on, draws out into the endless imperfect reflection of one half of this world. The stage is ever reflected by the base line, yet never</em><em> same.</em></p> <p align="justify"><em>While he stands at the lake, with all his longings and his sadness, with his loss and all the contents of his little fragile human heart, a million other moments, happenings, events, surround him, arbour-like. Never on person has the might to better, clear, make whole, what broken threads and fractured porcelain innocence lie between two frail and failing human beings. The hurt and hurting, the great loss of words and incongruence of all the relations led from mouth to mouth, all of it collected in the vessel of the human mind, ever to remember, ever to collect; nothing of it in permanence for the lake, its flowing, its liquid glass imperfect reflection, its receptacle of change.</em></p> <p align="justify"><em>Above the lake, birds fly. Clouds drift by. The sun shines, the stars glister, the moon sings. Sometimes, the sky kisses the lake. Ever, the sky lies in the lake, imperfectly, ever changing.</em></p> <p align="justify"><em>A human longing, a human hurt, is cast out over the water-sky.</em></p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-37851563863253619552011-03-17T08:09:00.001+01:002011-03-17T08:09:40.369+01:00Home<p align="justify"><font size="1">(click on the images to see bigger versions of them)</font> <br />Greetings from Lucerne, Switzerland! Since the 24th of February, Martin and I are living in a beautiful flat in the old part of the town, by the lake Vierwaldstätter, in the central area of Switzerland. I have left Vienna for good and moved out of my flat there. Though I live here now, I am still a student of Vienna University, finishing in the months to come the thing left to do for my studies: writing my diploma thesis. <br /></p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Sqs7V4TEB-DF2hPVGEX-hDcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img title="" alt="" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKLzJVwCI/AAAAAAAABFE/3YR2-92INHQ/s720/altstadt01.jpg" width="190" height="132" /></a> <br /><font size="1">the picturesque old town of Lucerne</font></td> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/PghDBYcH0A6loacDlcb8qTcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKM6lUn9I/AAAAAAAABFI/4ztQZmrUTZE/s720/altstadt02.jpg" width="190" height="130" /></a> <br /><font size="1">inside of which we live</font></td> </tr> </tbody></table> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <p align="center"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/T1jqdFjq73wNFW8-TbU4Yjcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKN3aTLrI/AAAAAAAABGc/bAGg89d4plU/s512/gasse01.jpg" width="200" height="297" /></a> <br /><font size="1">the red circle marks our flat</font></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p align="justify">After the time of exploring, furnishing and settling into the flat, it has become a beautiful and comfortable place both Martin and I call home. The old house, tiny in comparison to Viennese houses, is composed of a Thai restaurant on the ground floor (very yummy, very handy), led by two charming sisters who also own the flat on the first floor. The second floor's flat is owned by our only "real" neighbour, a German man of roughly our age, who is both friendly and polite (and keeps 5 bikes, 4 of which are his). The third and fourth floors, the house's upper portion, make up our flat, which is a maisonette composed of the regular third floor plus a completely renovated big attic. What a change from living in a house of 40 flats to this! And what a change to live in an area of town, where no cars are on the (tiny tiny) streets. <br /> <br />The first real adventure and challenge here was, without a doubt, Swiss Carnevale. Living right at the centre of it proved quite a challenge on the nerves, all around the clock, but also interesting and fascinating. After that, the silence and peace that surrounds the house (especially for me, after my Vienna flat) is astonishing.</p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <p></p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/AVUFXQneqDmAr3w47EzHGTcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKPbTcgnI/AAAAAAAABFU/S3fP0pIkl7E/s720/living room02.jpg" width="190" height="130" /></a> </td> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/WzFeU-wpUBvJ9D0Np1TCLTcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKQDH_aMI/AAAAAAAABFY/uNPE-dfm8Gg/s720/living room01.jpg" width="190" height="130" /></a> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p></p> <p align="justify">Our living room, which is separated by a half-wall from the kitchen. <br /></p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/pgVVA24bfIrXzi5gt9g3Qzcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKQ3Q6e6I/AAAAAAAABFc/Sx_j_DLfKMg/s720/living room_kitchen.jpg" width="190" height="127" /></a> </td> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/i3IIFB8m5AJgvmrw1LlRlDcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKRcOYVdI/AAAAAAAABFg/kYPCD3NejHo/s720/kitchen03.jpg" width="190" height="127" /></a> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/r-2YEDU8nplUvs_0hCxHcDcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKSFO2oKI/AAAAAAAABFk/Sd2yXK6rRNE/s720/kitchen04.jpg" width="190" height="127" /></a> </td> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/qJ9pQtL8RFY05o2WapfbiTcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKSw8u7VI/AAAAAAAABFo/QzKidC4Pin4/s720/kitchen02.jpg" width="190" height="127" /></a> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/gIoSZi_Oyk1Mq5lqfOkPnzcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKTshXbtI/AAAAAAAABFs/PwTgOLDBfCA/s720/kitchen01.jpg" width="190" height="127" /></a> </td> <td valign="top" width="200"> <p align="right"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/UnOtdM-1M8Z_2ZDkdoo-sjcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKO6FqxvI/AAAAAAAABFQ/7BdI4i9Sbi0/s512/hallway01.jpg" width="102" height="150" /></a> </p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p></p> <p>Kitchen and living room are connected to the hallway, which has the entrance door and bathroom door on one side, and that to the study on the other. At the end of the hallway, as seen in the picture above, is the door to the balcony, and the stairs winding up to the top floor. <br /></p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="200"> <p align="justify"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/AmEBUq5dNXrpLflgXe_HbDcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKUaN-3QI/AAAAAAAABFw/gDaapUCsCjE/s720/study02.jpg" width="190" height="127" /></a> </p> </td> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/skv4X9ZRwfUMaEiU_6LCuzcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKVPGtSUI/AAAAAAAABF0/h8XWuCNuXn8/s720/study01.jpg" width="190" height="127" /></a> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p></p> <p></p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="133"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/WV0TIr_OijZIed0NNHC1ZTcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKV4a4CmI/AAAAAAAABF4/pagZoLyckqU/s512/wardrobe01.jpg" width="120" height="175" /></a> </td> <td valign="top" width="133"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/jFUcz5m6CxOvxO9YzDB4mDcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKW4c2g_I/AAAAAAAABF8/PLK50Ayi-d4/s512/stairs01.jpg" width="120" height="175" /></a> </td> <td valign="top" width="133"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/DWWzDMZ8ypodw6mHQvIVsjcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKXrXYw2I/AAAAAAAABGA/VbMCn0aB0wg/s512/stairs02.jpg" width="120" height="175" /></a> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p></p> <p></p> <p align="justify">The top floor is a huge room with pitched walls on three sides and lovely dark wooden beams under the (low) ceiling. We’ve separated it into two parts by means of a shelf, one side for the bed, the other for all kinds of other things. Sitting on the ground with pillows, blankets and sheepskins, it is a cosy place to have tea or play board games. At the far end, there is a particularly sunny window with an armchair by it, where I very much enjoy sitting in the open window and reading, in the sun, when the weather is fine. <br /></p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="200"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/2tXw4oaikrCSqwy35oBn-Tcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKYfaCtPI/AAAAAAAABGE/hegrAepcvqQ/s720/attic02.jpg" width="190" height="127" /></a> </td> <td valign="top" width="200"> <p align="right"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Pf1_jtF5K9ONoUCaNEXdOzcni0wi-faqcTM94tPsJ7U?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TYFKZXKxb8I/AAAAAAAABGI/Bf1SMlsGusg/s512/balcony01.jpg" width="110" height="163" /></a> </p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p></p> <p align="justify">Our balcony, the last picture, is still rather dire as of now, apart from the Tibetan prayer flags already giving a hint of colour. But flower seeds are already bought, and pots standing in waiting to be filled and put out. As the weather is getting warmer and warmer, I’ll soon start raising my seedlings.</p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-90131313060230001912011-01-29T12:20:00.001+01:002011-01-29T12:22:41.050+01:00Rhapsody in Blue<p align="justify">Another day for Rhapsody in Blue, just like yesterday, another day when nothing really matters. Having tea with Gershwin. <br /> <br />Bernstein takes me by the hand, and we walk through America, an America that wove itself new and full and bustling out of a million dreams every second, and an orchestra, endlessly stretching until the horizon, plays the Rhapsody in a never ending liquid train of blue that ebbs and flows, comes and goes, like the sea washing this America's shores and the people therein, and all their dreams combined, rising and swirling, hunting and longing, and everything happens without anything, every moment hung up like the tiniest note on a sheet, and yet everything in this marvellously dazzling train that allows us never to stop, never to look back, never to tire, just as it never seems to, never wants to, tire. <br /> <br />Next to me, Bernstein with seeming effortlessness dreams out all the strong and subtle, languid and dancing machinery of piano that keeps this train going, not with his hands (his still gently holding mine) but with his brows, his deep eyes, all the world’s most exquisite pianos rising behind his forehead, stretching out to the orchestra, until the horizon, across the coming and going of this auditory landscape, all features bursting alive and filling everything around us with, yes, this America. <br /> <br />Before the crescendo of crescendos happens, I feel it rising around us, like a wave, storm, a swarm, and for an instant Bernstein leans back at my side, a little sideways, and our ears, now, stretch until the sky, welcoming this inescapable swelling and overwhelming acceleration of our train, lifting us not higher but wider, until we stretch out over all this dream landscape and everything clashes, washes, dives into us and outward, rippling until the end of our orchestra, which has now become this America, just as we have, this vertiginous construct of shimshimmery dreams and realities, and everything happens endlessly interlaced, entangled like an equation birthing boundlessly new equations, until the very horizon around us rises up, folds itself towards us, inward, only to blossom gently with this imagined flower, immeasurably encompassing this gigantic machinery we have been dreaming up, until it all falls away on a whim, it seems, dissipating into the empty space it filled. <br /> <br />Bernstein still holds my hand, and we look, with eyes a little glazed, at the moments stretching out behind us, take a sip of that tea, and continue onward, again, towards the horizon, where else. <br /></p> <div style="padding-bottom: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: none; padding-top: 0px" id="scid:5737277B-5D6D-4f48-ABFC-DD9C333F4C5D:6bbf3ff9-de7c-475e-894f-1061c5bed23b" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent"><div><object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/xxb7yNG0DGc&hl=en"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/xxb7yNG0DGc&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="355"></embed></object></div></div> <div style="padding-bottom: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: none; padding-top: 0px" id="scid:5737277B-5D6D-4f48-ABFC-DD9C333F4C5D:ad0b3569-916e-413a-ae16-6d180148a0bc" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent"><div><object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/BgPV0jLmdSM&hl=en"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/BgPV0jLmdSM&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="355"></embed></object></div></div> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-70109649061133016732011-01-15T16:54:00.001+01:002011-01-15T16:54:36.555+01:00Looking West<p align="justify"><img src="http://www.navros.de/images/frontpage/gaze_west_small.jpg" width="380" height="380" /> <br /> <br /></p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <p align="center"><em>“A! Elbereth Gilthoniel! <br />silivren penna míriel <br />o menel aglar elenath, <br />Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth! <br />We still remember, we who dwell <br />In this far land beneath the trees <br />The starlight on the Western Seas.” <br /></em><font size="1">J.R.R. Tolkien: The Lord of The Rings, Book Six, The Grey Havens</font></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p align="justify"> <br />When I walk down the street I live in, with its mobile phone bodegas, one Euro shops, veiled women and perfume bathed boys, it leads to a bridge over the little river <em>Wien</em>, sharing its name with the city, that runs into the Danube further down, having passed through and underneath the city’s central districts. <br /> <br />Passing over that bridge, my view is directed, always and inevitably, westward. And in this certain instance, the direction almost perfectly matches the real compass quarter. The view thus leads upstream towards the edge of the city, passing castle <em>Schönbrunn</em> and leading on to the hills of the <em>Wienerwald</em> beyond the periphery. Naturally, this is an imagined view, as far as the mind’s local horizon carries it, in fact obstructed by a slight bend of the river, bridges, houses, and other structures. What it shows, though, at all times, is a corridor towards the West, a gaze that leaves the city rather than moving towards its centre (which would be, theoretically, gazing into the opposite direction), a gaze also that reveals the endlessly different and beautiful skies of the moment and, catching the right times, the western directions possibly greatest treasure: the sunset. <br /> <br />In me, this view is at all times a powerful conglomeration of emotions and associations. Gazing out of the city, seeing much more of the open sky than many other times, down in the deep canyons of Viennese streets, but there is more to it than that. For, most times I pass this bridge, it is on the way to the city’s main (international) train station: the <em>Westbahnhof</em>. And every time I go there, or to other large train stations, be it to embark on an own journey, or to pick someone up or see them off, an almost irresistible longing to travel envelops me. Boarding a train with the most remote destination possible and letting it carry you away, through gradually less familiar lands and landscapes, always this same longing. Thus has passing over this bridge and gazing West taken on my intense longing for journey, and every time I cast that look, I am captured by the same feeling. <br /> <br />In this very personal sense, the direction of West has a very distinct and special emotional meaning to me. It means embarking on a journey into the direction of sunset’s most beautiful light, travelling through the night and re-emerging into a far away day. Is that not, in a sense, the same longing Tolkien imprinted his Elves with? It might be me and my associations, but marching to the <em>Grey Havens</em> to board a ship that will carry you hence into the West, over the mighty sea, is just that emotion I was trying to describe. That certain sense of longing, intertwined with the most beautiful melancholy of parting and moving on. <br /> <br />Soon, I will take my Grey Ship and journey on into the West. My days in Vienna are drawing to their close. <br /></p> <p align="left"> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr></tr> </tbody></table> </p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <p align="center">“<em>In that time the last of the Noldor set sail from the Havens and left Middle-earth for ever. And latest of all the Keepers of the Three Rings rode to the Sea, and Master Elrond took there the ship that Círdan had made ready. In the twilight of autumn it sailed out of Mithlond, until the seas of the Bent World fell away beneath it, and the winds of the round sky troubled it no more, and borne upon the high airs above the mists of the world it passed into the Ancient West, and an end was come for the Eldar of story and song.” <br /></em><font size="1">J.R.R. Tolkien: The Silmarillion, Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age</font></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-38985248036903133792010-11-15T15:15:00.001+01:002010-11-15T15:15:30.999+01:00Rehearsals of History<p align="justify">Regarding the history of Asia, one finds many occasions where later events of global history seem almost to have been rehearsed on a smaller scale. A prime example is that of World War II. Freed from a euro-centric view, it had an early start in China. The events of Shanghai here seemingly a small scale representation of what soon after was to cover almost the whole word, with mostly all later participants already present (in form of Shanghai’s concessions). </p> <p align="justify">From a certain point of view, might not the ominous <em>Great Game</em> be regarded similarly as a <em>rehearsal</em> for a <em>Cold War</em>, here played out mostly between Britain, Russia and China on the grounds and interests in and of Tibet? A chain reaction of open and (much more) secret missions and spies throughout the Himalayan region, where finally Russian actions spurred British reaction, which in turn led to Chinese re-assertive demonstrations of power. </p> <p align="justify">All of this, naturally, played out much different than the <em>real Cold War</em>. Czarist Russia left the scene crumbling away, the Qing followed not much later, and finally Britain left the scene of India and (most of) Asia; leaving Tibet, which had seemed little more than a plaything tossed between the larger powers, to finally deny the race to become a nation-state like all else around it and be gobbled up by the interests of the only powerful ones left (or having re-entered) on the scene: (communist) China.</p> <p align="justify"> </p> <p></p> <div style="padding-bottom: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: none; padding-top: 0px" id="scid:0767317B-992E-4b12-91E0-4F059A8CECA8:235afd44-abbe-45eb-84b7-4601615d87b9" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent">Tags: <a href="http://technorati.com/tags/Musings" rel="tag">Musings</a>,<a href="http://technorati.com/tags/Asia" rel="tag">Asia</a>,<a href="http://technorati.com/tags/History" rel="tag">History</a>,<a href="http://technorati.com/tags/Tibet" rel="tag">Tibet</a>,<a href="http://technorati.com/tags/China" rel="tag">China</a>,<a href="http://technorati.com/tags/India" rel="tag">India</a></div> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-62021064380051480532010-08-11T14:10:00.001+02:002010-08-11T14:20:42.626+02:00Home by the lake<p align="justify">For about one week now, I am living with my sweetest in his flat in Luzern, Switzerland. This magical <em>disneyland-esque</em> Town by the beautiful Vierwaldstättersee (<em>lake Lucerne</em>). Before arriving here, I spent a week in the beautiful mountains of <em>Graubünden</em>, together with my father. Below is a selection of impressions from those days. <br /> <br /></p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <div align="center"> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="290" align="center"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="145"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/shreyortha/Alpen2010#5502994715135595986" target="_blank"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TF6QiYyCVdI/AAAAAAAAA_Y/sDbPAk1il8U/s720/IMG_0400.JPG" width="144" height="97" /></a></td> <td valign="top" width="145"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/shreyortha/Alpen2010#5502994637730446162" target="_blank"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TF6Qd4bNe1I/AAAAAAAAA-4/lmPlp0sv27o/s720/IMG_0358.JPG" width="144" height="97" /></a></td> </tr> </tbody></table> </div> <div align="center"> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="290" align="center"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="145"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/shreyortha/Alpen2010#5502994528894406498" target="_blank"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TF6QXi-rT2I/AAAAAAAAA-Q/G23GW3kJO3k/s720/IMG_0315.JPG" width="144" height="97" /></a></td> <td valign="top" width="145"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/shreyortha/Alpen2010#5502994748246593602" target="_blank"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TF6QkUIUEEI/AAAAAAAAA_k/QQimf0pKpbA/s720/IMG_0410.JPG" width="144" height="97" /></a></td> </tr> </tbody></table> </div> <div align="center"> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="290" align="center"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="145"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/shreyortha/Alpen2010#5502994820929590706" target="_blank"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TF6Qoi5SlbI/AAAAAAAABAE/lkKD6b_abY8/s720/IMG_0434.JPG" width="144" height="97" /></a></td> <td valign="top" width="145"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/shreyortha/Alpen2010#5502994802275552402" target="_blank"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TF6QndZ0jJI/AAAAAAAAA_8/W4TfUnwn1ZU/s720/IMG_0426.JPG" width="144" height="97" /></a></td> </tr> </tbody></table> </div> <div align="center"> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="150" align="center"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="150"> <p align="center"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/shreyortha/Alpen2010#5502995233902400434" target="_blank"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TF6RAlVrk7I/AAAAAAAABDE/i-vqj7VXOWg/s720/IMG_0669.JPG" width="144" height="97" /></a></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> </div> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-71885433331566454092010-08-11T13:41:00.001+02:002010-08-11T13:41:28.667+02:00Imaginary journeys<p align="justify">Last night, I spent much of my time in imaginary journeys once again. The starting point, this time, was Istanbul, that mysterious place where Occident and Orient almost kiss. My <em>count</em> has just been there, doing what he and I together almost but then never did.</p> <p align="justify">My journey began at the waters of the Bosporus, with two whales. One was a friend who came to see me and spend some time together, the other (appearing only later) was an Orca and rather bent on the opposite of friendship. Finally, all gates held and no harm was done. Thus my dream-self set out from Istanbul over the waves of distance and on to those wonderful places my mind <strong><a href="http://lisvoch.blogspot.com/2009/02/city-in-desert.html" target="_blank">so often</a></strong> circles around. In dreams, of course, time is even less important than when awake, and on the physical landscape of the world, too, it doesn’t force a single time.</p> <p align="justify">Like that, a part of my dream-self flew over the sea to Alexandria, and then slowly returning upwards along the coast, visiting Jerusalem and Damascus. Also, I travelled into the lands and they were the lands of dream and magic, where great Kings and beautiful Queens had created lands and cities of wonder. Fairy tales of towers, domes, deserts and those elusive princes of the Persian realm.</p> <p align="justify">Though at the same time, the other half of my dream-self remained near Istanbul, still with my whale friend, and received another very special guest. From the multi-coloured lands of far away and many dreams came the lady <em>Peony</em>, as a dear friend of old, to do what she always does: tell me tales and dreams of wonderful places. In my dream, as is the nature of dreams, she wore part of the appearance of a very wise professor of mine, and with that ladie’s voice, she told me about Dimashq and about the countries that lie east from there, and then east again and even further. Passing Samarkand, Tashkent, desert after desert and oasis after oasis along the many great ridges of mountains that rise into the endless blue sky above. She told me, quite probably, of my most favourite colour blue and of imperial porcelain, for that is indeed what she just yesterday did.</p> <p align="justify">In fact, I do not know how far east I finally travelled this night, for most of my (and her, in my dream) attention was on the much closer near east of the distant past – just there at everyone’s fingertips in the reality of dreams.</p> <p align="justify">And what better way, then, of waking up my sleepy beloved next to me than with the enchanting tunes of The Silk Road Orchestra, once I had left to magic of this night’s dreams.</p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-27695712371491859012010-06-08T14:34:00.001+02:002010-06-09T18:58:48.363+02:00Pictures of a Journey<p align="justify">By now I’ve more or less successfully reintegrated into my life here in Vienna. Arriving from two weeks of Sun and warmth to a gray wet morning in Austria wasn’t an easy challenge to my acquired tranquillity, but it survived. And some days later, to everyone’s surprise, the weather (having been abysmal over the time of my absence, as I’ve been told) started a sudden dash for summer. Finally. <br /> <br />Those two weeks of being with lovely people, as well as being able to enjoy my own silence and solitude were (as we say in German) “balm for my soul”. Though the wind was sadly often much too sleepy, we’ve been quite lucky with the weather. Only one day of rain (and hail) forced us to stay inside the boat and harbour, otherwise the sun shone down on us out of mostly clear blue skies. <br /> <br /></p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <div align="center"> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="322" align="center"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/mlDoio4F-7BSXatdYr0GVA?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWDgKuBzUI/AAAAAAAAAxk/Q7fUPQv8Yx4/s144/IMG_9389.JPG" /></a></td> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/gMYNMJGAbnGIVpv9O_Vo3Q?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWD-r_hRAI/AAAAAAAAAzk/8cNqHl3WWcs/s144/IMG_9475.JPG" /></a></td> </tr> <tr> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/Fs-KIWKlQ2FU_YJdVtjKBw?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWEJZ4r-hI/AAAAAAAAA0Q/l7kaIqjzukA/s144/IMG_9559.JPG" /></a></td> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/O07DrYGCjSDQ2VWLrIgfDA?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWEHaeTqdI/AAAAAAAAA0I/FPEkXRQrE7I/s144/IMG_9532.JPG" /></a></td> </tr> </tbody></table> <br /><font size="1">click on the images for their bigger versions or have a look at the album itself: </font><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/shreyortha/ItalienKorsikaMai2010?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><strong><font size="1">here</font></strong></a></div> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p align="justify"> <br />As we made our way round the island of Corsica, we were rich in time to gaze, even idly, at the slowly changing scenery of this fascinatingly beautiful little land. Over the clear blue and turquoise waters, lined with cliffs and sandy beaches, rise lush green hills and slopes leading up as far as snow-clad peaks amidst the clouds. Patches of glacier ice glittering in the sunlight. <br /> <br />Napoleon supposedly said (in his earlier, more Corsica-romantic days) he could recognise his island by its scent. Crossing over from northern Sardinia, where our trip began, it was indeed the scent that greeted us first. While the island’s shoreline slowly unravelled itself from the haze of distance, we drew in this fascinating spicy perfume, a blend of plants and herbs, trees burnt wood. As always in the countries of the Mediterranean, I feel the earth itself, filled with sun and lush memories, wears this special perfume. <br /> <br /></p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <div align="center"> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="322" align="center"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/rL-FIsf_9D9ZTOlOhCDwXQ?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWDzVT_dZI/AAAAAAAAAy8/sIJVcvcFRcQ/s144/IMG_9450.JPG" /></a></td> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/J0QHc5gP3mB4mscKQz1XiQ?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWEONaAJtI/AAAAAAAAA0s/RxvIU4c_GZ4/s144/IMG_9581.JPG" /></a></td> </tr> <tr> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/gq7BJUyHoAMA1sCYvTa1OQ?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWEIJcvBrI/AAAAAAAAA0M/k99-ea4K3Uk/s144/IMG_9554.JPG" /></a></td> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/6nKZOBuCpBoEixhc2s61-Q?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWEFst3X3I/AAAAAAAAA0A/4Py6SBKnLcw/s144/IMG_9503.JPG" /></a></td> </tr> </tbody></table> <br /><font size="1">click on the images for their bigger versions or have a look at the album itself: </font><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/shreyortha/ItalienKorsikaMai2010?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><strong><font size="1">here</font></strong></a></div> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p align="justify"> <br />On the water during the day, we spent our evenings in a stream of small picturesque villages, hardly being more than one line of houses embracing a small harbour, and bigger, proper pirate bastions with winding alleys and little piazzas. All that with the soundtrack of everybody speaking French and Corsu (the Italian-rooted own language of Corsica). <br /> <br />Later, after reaching the island’s southern tip again, I off to cross Corsica once more on my own and not returning to northern Sardinia with the others to take the ferry to Italy from there, as I had done when I arrived two weeks before. I left by bus and soon, in another town, switched to Corsica’s little train, the <em>u trinighellu</em> (“the rattling one”). Leaving a seaside town with palm trees and sandy beaches, an hour later one finds himself climbing over endless viaducts high up into the mountains, feeling soon rather like in the Alps than on a Mediterranean island. Along with the change of altitude, the vegetation and its smell changes, too, firs and mountain-forest low vegetation passing by outside the train’s window. <br /> <br /></p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <div align="center"> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="322" align="center"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/gE-Any_BjOFZEf-QpvZB6g?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWEbXMHQzI/AAAAAAAAA1g/VcSYj1daUuI/s144/IMG_9656.JPG" /></a></td> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/DCeX-epAXmzcaWKz5PxfCg?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWE_aPCSWI/AAAAAAAAA3w/Qpg2HzrHDik/s144/IMG_9805.JPG" /></a></td> </tr> <tr> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/uKw5RNNze3F72ValzmoAEg?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWFUDMXyBI/AAAAAAAAA5A/MlNkdmb9gYg/s144/IMG_9858.JPG" /></a></td> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/k-W983wg6fPYz6kXmnXwyA?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWFaW-FCLI/AAAAAAAAA5c/12kBsid49Gk/s144/IMG_9885.JPG" /></a></td> </tr> </tbody></table> <br /><font size="1">click on the images for their bigger versions or have a look at the album itself: </font><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/shreyortha/ItalienKorsikaMai2010?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><strong><font size="1">here</font></strong></a></div> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p align="justify"> <br />Sadly, the little rattler was almost entirely filled with noise Germans, which lessened the atmosphere a little, for me. To my great delight, everybody took me for a French person (including the Frenchman next to me) and I happily played along to keep up my disguise. After passing the island’s capital Corte high up in the mountains, the train empties of tourists and begins its slow descent through the mountains and returning to the sea, now almost at the island’s other end. <br /> <br />Back on mainland Italy, I spent one night in Florence, having two days to explore the city (which I knew so well lately from its early renaissance virtual incarnation). Rather than visit all the museums and risk the famous <em>Stendhal-syndrome</em>, I soaked up the city’s feel by getting to know it with my feet. Naturally, I also did see David (giving me an incredible rush of goose bumps at first sight) and a few other things. Finally, I was glad to board my night train back to Vienna on Sunday evening, after a journey full of big and small marvels alongside an equally revealing journey through my tumultuous inner self. Luckily, I emerged with a happiness and tranquillity I hardly dared to hope fore. <br /> <br /></p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <div align="center"> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="322" align="center"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/r0lyaS-4TqzfbTPqoOJk5A?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWFcHugO3I/AAAAAAAAA5k/tOFd2eHcjEE/s144/IMG_9892.JPG" /></a></td> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/Tg553KQODXMrs7HjyjPzxA?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWGEGEPcmI/AAAAAAAAA78/LHCFgtbI9bk/s144/IMG_0020.JPG" /></a></td> </tr> <tr> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/MSWUOEus5FIBtutVS98p4A?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWGNqAERPI/AAAAAAAAA8g/WeDStYVx-Co/s144/IMG_0041.JPG" /></a></td> <td valign="top" width="160"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/507ufvJU4wJkx8CKz_n5LA?feat=directlink"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/TAWFiQlQG7I/AAAAAAAAA6A/f7G0xV0fTm4/s144/IMG_9901.JPG" /></a></td> </tr> </tbody></table> <br /><font size="1">click on the images for their bigger versions or have a look at the album itself: </font><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/shreyortha/ItalienKorsikaMai2010?feat=directlink" target="_blank"><strong><font size="1">here</font></strong></a></div> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p align="justify"> <br />And as the one adventure ended, another one was just beginning. <br /> <br /> <br />lîlam nyinnyan sîmâ nganamainnâ jâshainâtur rerat. sîmâno avenahanan shaitel irat yul aith khidronarông. ta ha nâfrîshâme dingne cägthanno lhät. bât nyinnyamainam shairôlâsham. </p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-18877506544226358732010-05-14T22:35:00.001+02:002010-05-14T22:35:03.118+02:00I am leaving now<p align="justify"><font size="1">Indeed sadly, this time there is no occasion for posting a version of <em>Leaving on a jetplane</em>, so the post will have to make do without…</font> <br /> <br /><em>My dear People, <br />My dear Bagginses and Boffins. And my dear Tooks and Brandybucks, and Grubbs, and Chubbs, and Burrowses, and Hornblowers, and Bolgers, Bracegirdles, Goodbodies, Brockhouses and Proudfoots. – ‘ProudFEET!’ – Proudfoots. Also my good Sackville-Bagginses that I welcome back at last to Bag End. Today is my one hundred and eleventh birthday: I am eleventy-one today! <br /> <br />I hope you are all enjoying yourselves as much as I am. <br /> <br />I shall not keep you long. I have called you all together for a Purpose. Indeed, for Three Purposes! First of all, to tell you that I am immensely fond of you all, and that eleventy-one years is too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable hobbits. I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve. <br /> <br />Secondly, to celebrate my birthday. I should say: OUR birthday. For it is, of course, also the birthday of my heir and nephew, Frodo. He comes of age and into his inheritance today. Together we score one hundred and forty-four. Your numbers were chosen to fit this remarkable total: One Gross, if I may use the expression. <br /> <br />It is also, if I may be allowed to refer to ancient history, the anniversary of my arrival by barrel at Esgaroth on the Long Lake; though the fact that it was my birthday had slipped my memory on that occasion. I was only fifty-one then, and birthdays did not seem so important. The banquet was very splendid, however, though I had a bad cold at the time, I remember, and could only say ‘thag you very buch’. I now repeat it more correctly: Thank you very much for coming to my little party. <br /> <br />Thirdly and finally, I wish to make an ANNOUNCEMENT. I regret to announce that – though, as I said, eleventy-one years is far too short a time to spend among you – this is the END. I am going. I am leaving NOW. GOOD-BYE!</em></p> <p align="justify"><font size="1">Bilbo at his Birthday Party, in: J.R.R. Tolkien – The Lord of the Rings <br /> <br /> <br /></font><font size="2">My backpack is almost packed, my flat is almost ready to be locked and left slumbering, my life is very much in need of taking a break (now that is already a little too late for this break to be at the just-right-moment) and I myself am almost ready to go out of the door. From there, <em>the road goes ever one and on,</em> as we know, and I’m curious to see how this little adventure ahead of me will turn out. Or rather, these little adventures that lie ahead of me. <br /> <br />Take care, see you later. I’ll be back in the first days of June.</font></p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-714009841225430902010-05-05T19:53:00.001+02:002010-05-05T19:53:04.593+02:00An escape<p align="justify">I’m not only planning an escape, like Bill Murray does in <em>Lost in Translation</em>, but it is now just around the corner. Today, I biked through the rainy gray gloom to the train station and bought my tickets all the way from Vienna to Livorno, Italy. <br /> <br />After a day of travelling, changing my vehicle 3 times until I’m in Livorno, I’ll board the ferry to Olbia, Sardinia, in the late evening. There, I will meet up with my sister, father, and another friend of theirs to set out sailing around the island of Corsica pour deux semaines. <br /> <br />After that, I’ll go back to Livorno and from there to Firenze, where I plan to spend one night and enjoy the city which I visited long ago and now basically only remember in its digital reconstruction in <em>Assassin’s Creed II</em>. Should I want to go back after that, I’ll take a night train to Vienna. Otherwise, I’ll probably go back to Corsica, or maybe Elba or somewhere else, rent a little room and “write off all the pain from my heart” as a friend phrased it. Well, that is a tempting dream for sure. <br /> <br />Otherwise I’m trying to manage my daily routine and a little more than mere physical presence at the university, but it is still really difficult most of the time. I’m looking forward to the sea and the landscape, the different smells and languages, my sister and father, and so on. Also, I greatly look forward to being without the daily computer and internet. <br /> <br />As every time, I would have liked to arrange with some friends or acquaintances to meet while I travel, but this time I seem not be that lucky. So: If you’re reading this and are in any of the places I’ll be going to in the second half of May, then by all means drop me a line; but drop it quickly.</p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-71240511824366090322010-04-12T22:37:00.001+02:002010-04-12T22:37:51.088+02:00Tied up tightly in the net<p align="justify">Imagine older times, you don’t even have to go back that far. Knowing someone, being together and sharing each other, then going apart, breaking up. In times before ever present internet, before the permanent communication and sharing of (insignificant) news on social platforms. How easy it was to go apart and be apart, get a healthy distance. When you weren’t with a person and could, in fact, be without that person. <br /> <br />Today, the easily woven networks and connections keep reminding you of every person, if you want it or not. The curious mentality of <em>befriending</em> people virtually, being an easy click and so very often made without almost any connection in the <em>real world</em>. <em>Unfriending</em> however seems like an impossible step, a real attack. One can, in some areas, select to hide people, but then still one is far from achieving anything like social silence or even distance from anyone one wants. <br /> <br />So this means, instead of being able to busy oneself with ones’ life as usual and other things, one has to develop the ability to quickly and radically cope with that change of relationship, not only in and about oneself but also about the other. Because rather sooner than later, you’ll be witness to that other’s new activities and relationships. Instead of growing a distance slowly, in some secret garden with tea, lush green solitude and English garden furniture, one remains tied in the net and force fed all those meanings and all those meaninglessnesses. <br /> <br />I, for one, have no effective means of dealing with this. Maybe you do? Suggestions are always welcome…</p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-77334436630241080442010-03-14T18:04:00.001+01:002010-03-14T19:05:25.719+01:00Closure<p align="justify">Our story, you say, is like a beautiful book or movie. <br /> <br />Looking back on all the time we had, all the things we did, all the paths we walked, it shines bright and full of love. And there we sit, you and me together, full of love and despair. We have never walked our path with only mind or heart. <br /> <br /><em>Bird and Fish can fall in love.</em> <br /> <br />And love is always strongest. So strong it spanned our distances, held us together and drove us on. Our love kept us warm in lonely cold and soothed us when we burnt. It would have kept us together for a long time, even after it lost the power to save us from hurt. <br /> <br /><em>But where will they build their nest?</em> <br /> <br />We sailed on dreams and hopes, syncopating alongside each other forming our heavenly symphony of two. We’ve seen the limits of our measure, the range of our chromatic progression through its twin-centred universe. And with all the harmonies that our two melodies spun, we failed to make home in one rhythm and one baseline. <br /> <br /><em>The bird can make a nest on the water. <br /></em> <br />And now we did the one thing that needs more love than even living love itself. The most terrible pain is that of giving the greatest gift and preserving our symphony not in the future but in the past. Sealed with love and with tears, paid with indescribable pain and leaving us both, alone and together, stranded on a white shore – bruised and healed. <br /> <br /><em>The fish can fly. <br /> <br /></em>Alongside this most terrible pain, the most beautiful thing has survived. Everything is lost, all things are saved. Our melodies run free now, arching through a long reverb and carrying on with the most silent tones and the smallest breath. Uneasy, alone and small, nothing is lost. Our music survives, we survive, change key and the whole world transforms. One line ends and two new ones are born from it. <br /> <br />Here is another hope from me. It is going to be fine. <br /> <br /> <br /><font size="1">[quotations in italics: Richard Powers – The Time of our Singing]</font></p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-54700058863961487462010-02-28T16:37:00.001+01:002010-02-28T16:37:26.932+01:00Coming Back<p align="justify">When I got off the bus from Budapest to Vienna today, the air was scented with early spring hope, just like it had been in Budapest this morning. Returning to this “real world” of mine after a month of being away to different places feels rather like coming back from spending half a year in a string of different alternative universes. <br /> <br />On this last bus trip of holiday-February, I finally finished Richard Powers’ <em>The Time of our Singing</em>, certainly one of the most moving and inspiring books I’ve read so far. Finishing the last chapters of this book’s fantastical journey as well as events from the last weeks put me into an emotional state that I can not put into words. A blend of feeling enriched, drained, grown, broken, sad and tranquil. <br /> <br />Having arrived back from England last night and then travelled back to Vienna today, university life and all it incorporates will start again tomorrow. With a chance of it being <em>one last time</em>. Though making statements like that usually results in something going wrong. <br /> <br />I have pictures and stories to tell of times in Budapest, in Tyrolia (Austria, Mountains) and in England. These will come soon. Now I need to unpack my pack back, wash my laundry, revive my flat. And among the top priorities: rejoice with the piano.</p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-52687542432983717092010-02-03T10:13:00.001+01:002010-02-03T10:13:37.299+01:00a bird<p align="justify">(written for the blog on 19.09.2008 and so far not published) <br /> <br />this is fiction <br /> <br /><em>outside, the leaves of an apple tree jiggle in the wind, like hot air rising up from the grass and distorting the vision. i sit in the kitchen and rest my head on the back of my chair, tilting it to one side and watching the light outside. sunshine. <br /> <br />as i sit, and think and move and my cup on the table steams lightly, aimless thoughts circle my head. the music is playing in the living room, but i stay in the kitchen and watch the world outside. for this moment, nothing seems pressing. no agenda to attend, nothing to prepare and nothing to remember and do. the simple act of sitting and watching, in this very moment, how it should last. <br /> <br />in my dream, i recall, there were walls covered with plants. overgrown with grass and fern, some trees even. everything sprouting just there, vertically, suspended. and i remember running my fingers along the leaves, wet with moisture. <br /> <br />yesterday, after she left, i noticed a big bird outside, right where we had been sitting. black and stout it seemed to linger and, turning its head from one side to the other, search for the last bits of our conversation still hanging in the air, hovering a little longer. as i watched that bird, it seemed the strangest creature to me. how infinitely different not merely in appearance, but as a whole, as a living entity. me, enclosed in my world, and the bird somewhere else, somewhere neither i could go nor it could leave. <br />soon after that, it flew away over the trees, over the houses, to some other place in some other world, where it might meet more of its kind, or be alone and move its head and taste the remnants of a human conversation.</em></p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-76590732811937817222010-01-01T16:58:00.001+01:002010-01-01T16:58:33.850+01:00nayílhô<p align="justify">新年快乐!Happy new year! <br /> <br />Byebye 2009, hello 2010; once again a fresh full year ahead. Once again, the unique feeling of the first day of the year. Then, getting used to a new number, looking forward to the change of seasons, to things to come, time to pass, another birthday, too. Time will pass quickly, I suppose, as it did last year. Many things might happen, let’s hope many are good. I had a very nice New Year’s Eve, this time. <br /> <br />In school, when I had my <em>Jostein Gaarder </em>period<em>, </em>I ventured to memorise all the sayings of Jose and Ana’s <em>Manifesto </em>(from: Jostein Gaarder – Maya) together with my dear friend Sarah of those days. Despite never making it beyond saying number 28, they have remained at the back of my mind and every now and then I go back and resolve to memorise them again. Now, not long ago, I began translating them into Sablung. And for the beginning of the New Year, here is today’s respective metaphor: <br /> <br /></p> <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <p align="center"><font size="1">Es gibt eine Welt, der Wahrscheinlichkeit nach grenzt das ans Unmögliche. Es wäre viel begreiflicher, wenn es ganz einfach gar nichts gäbe. Dann könnte sich auch niemand fragen, warum es nichts gibt.</font></p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <p align="center"><font size="1">līs it sr', lāsīluṅ ha jhāsilmaim lüyet. <br />chai thinaṣ sru ṣī zeboprachaī ṣīn <br />lau naṣ it lhaṣmane tam hā' to'.</font></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-32218945204527569412009-12-23T18:19:00.001+01:002009-12-23T18:35:15.803+01:00Vienna winter impressions<p align="justify">Some impressions from this December, around Vienna with family.   </p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="410"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="204"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/eGziQjlXJVBE8lrsz1spfg?feat=directlink"><img style="display: block; float: none" title="Trainstation" alt="Trainstation" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/SzJKomjfWPI/AAAAAAAAAmw/ZhoBvA2HWw0/s288/IMG_8512.JPG" /></a></td> <td valign="top" width="204"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/mkHZ-lFYstth5E1Zafyrlg?feat=embedwebsite"><img style="display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px" title="Naschmarkt" alt="Naschmarkt" align="right" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/SzJKqAnH6BI/AAAAAAAAAm4/uJmGdX0krBI/s288/IMG_8535.JPG" /></a></td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p align="justify">My father spent a few days in Vienna at the beginning of December. Arriving by train, leaving by train. Being at train stations, I am always tempted to board a train and be off to some far-away place. </p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="413"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="411"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/c990m0Kwxjzj8vbm-4VZJw?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/SzJKreOQxAI/AAAAAAAAAm8/UgByLxF4tgI/s400/IMG_8536.JPG" /></a></td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p align="justify">Classes at the university finished almost one week before Christmas, and my sister and father came visiting by car. We spent some nice days enjoying the snow and Christmas mood in the city.</p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="413"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="411"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/QquGov0BUlKrP_EdqhfRHg?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/SzJKt7h6jkI/AAAAAAAAAnE/GbjXpf7akNw/s400/IMG_8541.JPG" /></a></td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p align="justify">Strolling on Naschmarkt in search for <a href="http://eo.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tonka_fabo"><strong>tonka beans</strong></a>, enjoying the magic of the inner city after delicious Kaiserschmarren with friends or freezing to death on the impressive central cemetery. </p> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="413"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="411"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.de/lh/photo/R0BwEGGYDFL230-sgAgMLA?feat=embedwebsite"><img title="Sister and Father" alt="Sister and Father" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/SzJKvWEI-ZI/AAAAAAAAAnI/nkVd7R7vgbc/s400/IMG_8542.JPG" /></a></td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p align="justify">Now I’m in Germany, sitting in the living room with the fire crackling nicely next to me and the garden full of snow (though it has rather been in melt-freeze-mode today). Enjoy the holidays!</p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-7201489674751310022009-12-05T23:06:00.001+01:002009-12-05T23:06:11.372+01:00preview of the porn project<p align="justify">Lately, I have begun to paint with watercolours again. <em>Again</em> means, in this context, <em>since school many years ago</em>. Mostly in the late evenings when I’m too tired to concentrate on more important things, I sit at my desk and occupy myself with these things while the scent of watercolours brings me a happy and peaceful state of mind. <br /> <br />Thus, I have carried on something that began with a few sketches and by now has already taken quite concrete form in my head. Now, I have finished the first 4 pieces of this series and though I don’t have a scanner, I have put together a little preview. <br /> <br />This series, <em>the porn project</em>, deals with scenes of pornographic media. Rather than morally criticising or trying to imbue these with more abstract meanings, <em>the porn project</em> simply provides different renditions of the given subject. Considering how big a role pornography plays in modern life, both hidden and visible, I don’t find it necessary to discuss taboos or moral points of view. Quite simply, I playfully explore this topic, which plays a significant role in my day to day life. <br /> <br />The images <em>shot04, shot05, shot07</em> and <em>shot08</em> mark the first stage of this project. Later stages will differ by varying degrees and incorporate other ideas. Enjoy. <br /></p> <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/TwM1ExHtr6FWM-HDMBVwLw?authkey=Gv1sRgCK_K-b2qrpr7ag&feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_w1FNPuMZJSs/SxrT85ruQFI/AAAAAAAAAl8/-5GfmSsfHCE/s400/preview01.jpg" /></a> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-80914628550175706892009-11-28T12:06:00.001+01:002009-11-28T12:07:10.861+01:00Lichtjahrsnacht<table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <p align="center"><em>"Das Wirbeltier schaut sich unvermittelt um und sieht im retrospektiven Bild der Lichtjahrsnacht den rätselhaften Schwanz der Sippe. <br /> <br />Erst jetzt hat der geheimnisvolle Weg sein Ziel erreicht, und das Ziel ist das Bewusstsein um den langen Weg zum Ziel. <br /> <br />Wir können nur in die Hände klatschen, Extremitäten, die wir dem Konto für den Erbschatz der Sippe gutschreiben können."</em></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p align="justify"><font size="1">Jostein Gaarder: <em>Maya.</em> <em>Das Manifest, Karo 6</em></font> <br /> <br />Vor langer langer Zeit habe ich mit einer Freundin aus mythischer Vorzeit begonnen diese 52 Sprüche auswendig zu lernen. Leider bin ich nie über die Hälfte hinaus gekommen, und sie musste schon früher aufgeben. Doch schon mit der Hälfte an Sprüchen hat das Aufsagen beim Patiencelegen viel Spaß gemacht. <br /> <br />Ich vermisse oft die Vergangenheit, und frage mich fast genauso oft, ob ich das tun sollte. Denn die Vergangenheit, zumindest <em>diese</em> Vergangenheit, hatte (entgegen āryadevas Behauptung) ein wirkliches Ende. Es gibt einen Punkt, an dem sich genügend Beteiligte einer Vergangenheit genügend stark verändert haben damit diese Vergangenheit zu einem Ende kommt. Und doch bleibt sie weiter an mir haften und ich frage mich, wie es für die anderen Beteiligten ist. <br /> <br /></p> <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="2" width="400"><tbody> <tr> <td valign="top" width="400"> <p align="center">अतिक्रांतस्य नास्त्यादिरंतो 'नागतस्य च। <br />केन ते दृ*श्यते योगो वियोगश्च चिरापि न।। <br /> <br />”Es gibt keinen Anfang der Vergangenheit und kein Ende der Zukunft, <br />warum schaust du auf das Beisammensein und nicht auf die Trennung, auch wenn sie lang ist?”</p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <font size="1">āryadeva: <em>catuḥśataka</em>, Kapitel 1, Vers 21 nach Karen Lane mit möglicher Rekonstruktion der zweiten Strophe durch Anne MacDonald</font> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433520713333560822.post-38723003041425559382009-11-13T17:53:00.001+01:002009-11-13T17:53:18.889+01:00Independence<p align="justify">As I was leaving the institute, today, a young woman approached me on the corridor. She explained making short interviews for a Chinese newspaper (her being an Austrian) and had come to our institute because of the question being: “Tibet: Independence yes or no?”. …She probably couldn’t have chosen a more difficult question to answer just like that, standing on the corridor. Even pramana (Buddhist logic) might have been a subject easier to explain. <br /> <br />Tibetan independence is, in fact, a topic hardly discussed at our institute (at least not in classes) but obviously of high interest to anybody occupied with the subject of tibetology (and a number of sinologists too, for that matter). <br /> <br />So, what are my thoughts on Tibetan independence; what is my point in this ongoing and politically heated discussion? It is a subject I have been thinking about and reviewing quite a lot recently. Partly because of my growing interest in Tibet’s historical situation during the first half of the 20th century (along with interesting figures such as dge ‘dun chos ‘phel) and partly because of my advance into sinology and thus the history of China in the 20th century. That is not to say the older Tibetan (and Chinese) history isn’t as important in the whole discussion, of course. <br /> <br />As I biked home after giving my little statement on the topic, a million things came to my mind and I wish I had asked for her name and email address, so I could write them to her (and correct some of my mistakes… it is friday after all). So now I’m writing some thoughts here, to get them off my mind. <br /> <br /> <br />To me, the topic of Tibetan independence is clearest the farther you go back in time. In the times of the great Tibetan empire under the rule of kings, the country did not only reach its biggest expansion but also quite probably had the most active contact (be it in war, trade, or else) with it’s neighbours. A glance at Silk Road history in the region of today’s 新疆 (Xinjiang), most of all roughly in Tang Dynasty times, shows clearly how much influence the Tibetan kings waged on those far away lands and kingdoms, Khotan, Miran, Loulan, Dunhuang… the list is long. Heather Stoddard, among others, speaks of the "<em>Doring”</em> (rdo ring) in discussing dge ‘dun chos ‘phel. These “long stones” seem to have existed not only in Tibet (specifically Lhasa) but also Chang’an. The famous <em>doring</em> of Lhasa, standing in front of the <em>Jhokhang </em>temple’s main entrance is engraved bilingually in Tibetan and Chinese with the 821-822 peace treaty between Tibet and China. Not that this treaty had any long-lasting effect, but nevertheless it shows the active political relations between two countries. Also, in discussion about dge ‘dun chos ‘phel, I stumpled about the m<em>chod rten dkar po</em>, “white Chörtens (Stupas)” that were set up as markers of the Tibetan borders (to Bhutan, India, Nepal, but also China and others) and found, for example, at the Kokonor. <br /> <br />But after the fall of the rule of kings, the topic of Tibetan independence seems to get more and more difficult to answer clearly. Over the course of time, Chinese influence in Tibet grew (for example with the post and influence of the <em>ambans)</em>. From the Chinese point of view, Tibet (successively) albeit slowly became part of the emperor’s influence and thus, theoretically, a tributary state. The Tibetan view of this was, of course, different and over time it is clear that the Chinese influence gradually diminished again until it had almost faded by the beginning of the 20th century. <br /> <br />The beginning of the 20th century truly was a period of great hope and chance for Tibet. The 13th, and afterwards even the 14th Dalai Lama had great plans for reformation and renewal of the country, organisations were forming in and without connection to movements in China, and so forth. In 1910, Chinese troops made their way to Lhasa but were defeated (the 13th Dalai Lama had taken temporary refuge in India). In 1911/12, the Qing Dynasty fell and together with that many of it’s more remote or tributary provinces declared independence. In 1912, the 13th Dalai Lama proclaimed Tibet’s independence (as did Mongolia; just recently the original of a document has been found in which Mongolia and Tibet assure each other’s independence as states having freed themselves from the oppression of the Qing Dynasty) which sadly was hardly recognise by other states around the world. <br /> <br />The reactions to 1911/12 over the whole of China and it’s periphery are very interesting, in themselves. As was typical for the end of Chinese Dynasties, tributary and remote provinces and countries declared their independence from the court, which in turn further weakened the court’s power and caused it fall. Throughout Chinese history, this has happened times and times again, but it must be clear, too, that this was always followed by a new dynasty arising and incorporating those far regions, again. Thus, a proclamation of independence from 1912 is difficult to judge, considering the overall political situation and dynamics in east Asia at that time. <br /> <br />1927, after the establishing of the Nanjing government, 蔣介石 (Chiang Kai-shek) proposed the separation of Tibet into three regions (Amdo and Kham had already been largely unconnected to the Lhasa-governed central Tibet for a longer time) which was administratively completed by 1936 with the establishing of the regions <em>Xikang</em> (parts of<em> Kham</em>) and <em>Qinghai </em>(<em>Amdo</em>). <br /> <br />Even after that, though, there were still strong Tibetan movements for reform, for independence or for cooperation with the Chinese (communists). The <em>Tibetan Improvement Party</em>, for example, was formed 1939 in Kalimpong, India, or the world’s first Tibetan Newspaper, the <em>Melong, </em>based in Kalimpong, kept trying to shake Tibet out of it’s long and blind slumber of conservative ignorance. <br /> <br />Finally, the conservative system resisted change and closed its eyes to the danger approaching swiftly. It was Tibetans, finally, who built roads for the “liberating” Chinese tanks… <br /> <br />In conclusion, I have no side in this discussion. Tibetan independence keeps being an incredibly difficult subject, partly caused by the fact that there still is too little scientific discussion of new Tibetan history that would have to take account of all the surrounding factors and influences. What is clear, though, is how incredibly political this whole issue has become. The Chinese (CCP) on the one hand and the (exile) Tibetans on the other both almost always approach this from a very subjective perspective. A Tibetan not wishing for Tibetan independence would be “betraying his cultural heritage”, a Chinese not following the party’s (hard)line on Tibet will be silenced with the same charges – betrayal of the motherland, political splittism. <br /> <br />One thing, though, must be noted without doubt: the situation as it is now, in Tibet, is wrong. Without discussing independence of real autonomy, the every day violations of human rights, martial law and cultural genocide planned on a large scale are delicts that many future generations will have to take responsibility and find answers for, either way.</p> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2