The lake

This is fiction.

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 almost inconceivable in the vast scale of their pattern.

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.

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 same.

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.

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.

A human longing, a human hurt, is cast out over the water-sky.

Home

(click on the images to see bigger versions of them)
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.

the picturesque old town of Lucerne

inside of which we live

the red circle marks our flat

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.

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.

Our living room, which is separated by a half-wall from the kitchen.

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.

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.

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.

Rhapsody in Blue

Another day for Rhapsody in Blue, just like yesterday, another day when nothing really matters. Having tea with Gershwin.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Looking West

“A! Elbereth Gilthoniel! silivren penna míriel o menel aglar elenath, Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth! We still remember, we who dwell In this far land beneath the trees The starlight on the Western Seas.” J.R.R. Tolkien: The Lord of The Rings, Book Six, The Grey Havens

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 Wien, sharing its name with the city, that runs into the Danube further down, having passed through and underneath the city’s central districts.

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 Schönbrunn and leading on to the hills of the Wienerwald 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.

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 Westbahnhof. 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.

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 Grey Havens 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.

Soon, I will take my Grey Ship and journey on into the West. My days in Vienna are drawing to their close.

“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.” J.R.R. Tolkien: The Silmarillion, Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age

Rehearsals of History

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).

From a certain point of view, might not the ominous Great Game be regarded similarly as a rehearsal for a Cold War, 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.

All of this, naturally, played out much different than the real Cold War. 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.

 

Tags: Musings,Asia,History,Tibet,China,India

Home by the lake

For about one week now, I am living with my sweetest in his flat in Luzern, Switzerland. This magical disneyland-esque Town by the beautiful Vierwaldstättersee (lake Lucerne). Before arriving here, I spent a week in the beautiful mountains of Graubünden, together with my father. Below is a selection of impressions from those days.

Imaginary journeys

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 count has just been there, doing what he and I together almost but then never did.

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 so often 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.

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.

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 Peony, 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.

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.

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.

Pictures of a Journey

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.

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.

click on the images for their bigger versions or have a look at the album itself: here

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.

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.

click on the images for their bigger versions or have a look at the album itself: here

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).

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 u trinighellu (“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.

click on the images for their bigger versions or have a look at the album itself: here

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.

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 Stendhal-syndrome, 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.

click on the images for their bigger versions or have a look at the album itself: here

And as the one adventure ended, another one was just beginning.


lîlam nyinnyan sîmâ nganamainnâ jâshainâtur rerat. sîmâno avenahanan shaitel irat yul aith khidronarông. ta ha nâfrîshâme dingne cägthanno lhät. bât nyinnyamainam shairôlâsham.

I am leaving now

Indeed sadly, this time there is no occasion for posting a version of Leaving on a jetplane, so the post will have to make do without…

My dear People,
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!

I hope you are all enjoying yourselves as much as I am.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Bilbo at his Birthday Party, in: J.R.R. Tolkien – The Lord of the Rings


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, the road goes ever one and on, 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.

Take care, see you later. I’ll be back in the first days of June.

An escape

I’m not only planning an escape, like Bill Murray does in Lost in Translation, 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.

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.

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 Assassin’s Creed II. 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.

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.

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.