migration

I often feel embarassed to admit that I'm an optimist. I imagine it knocks me down a peg or two in people's estimations. But the world desperately needs more optimism. The problem is that people mistake optimism for 'blind optimism', the unfounded faith that things will just get better. Blind optimism really is dumb. And dangerous. If we sit back and do nothing, things will not turn out fine. That's not the kind of optimism I'm talking about.
Optimism is seeing challenges as opportunities to make progress; it's having the confidence that there are things we can do to make a difference. We can shape the future, and we can build a great one if we want to.

Hannah Ritchie

All day, we were busy in the garden. I was busy sitting down and watching and drinking cups of tea while R was busy mowing and clearing and mulching and all the stuff that he has been doing for ever.

And all that time, thousands and thousands of crane were flying above us, on their way from Sweden and Finland to their summer homes in northern Africa. They do make a lot of noise. I waved to them and asked them to please come back next March.

to refrain from encroaching on what we don’t quite understand

 

 

I did many wonderful things this week, I laughed often, appreciated my excellent fortune of where and how we live, had enjoyable and enlightening times outdoors, indoors, in conversation and while contemplating.

Somewhere along the line in the past years or so, I think, I must have figured out that I want to have all that (above) despite the ongoing ill-health issues. After a while, it's either giving in and breaking into pieces or getting on with it, sort of.

When I had the three sessions with the clinical nutritionist earlier this year, I was introduced to the proper way of recording food intake, its positive and negative results and why. At first, I found it tedious and thankfully, I only need to do this for 2-3 days every so often to keep on track, but in hindsight, it makes sense and yes, shows some sort of cause and effect.

Anyway, the barium paste seems to have left the body and the bad days are not quite as bad which gave me enough energy to go for another long hillwalk with the man.

We started with a short steep climb to a 11th century castle ruin.

 and proceeded through dense forest in gorgeous autum colours

and found a small cemetery from the middle ages

some excellent views once we got up high

and a soft path with thick gorse bushes on the way down

with plenty of mushrooms

On Thursday was Samhain, one of the Celtic quarter days better known as Halloween and wrongly described as a US custom. I don't mind, really. It's slowly arriving here too but the few kids we saw running around were basically just after bags of sweets.

We built a small fire in the fire bowl on the patio and R talked about the Samhain rituals of his Irish childhood which involved apples and nuts and bairín breac (barmbrack) and much scary laughter and story telling. Athough he grew up in middle class suburbian Dublin, the ancient folklore traditions were part of his life. It was around this time of the year, when I first arrived in R's family and I had No Idea. Especially when the barmbrack was served and my slice miraculously contained the much cherished ring. A barmbrack is a sweet raisin bread that is used for fortune telling (more here). I also thought the entire family was slightly mad when we proceeded to do the weird thing with apples in a bucket of water. 

This here is a lengthy but enjoyable podcast episode put together by the National Folklore Collection of the University College of Dublin explaining and celebrating the Samhain origins of Halloween:

AmbasadaIrlandii · Samhain event recording

 

Folklore is a beautiful way for us to connect with our local landscape—our own natural environment—through the symbols and stories and narratives that are told about it. I think there’s a tendency nowadays to look at these things in terms of “They may be a bit twee,” or “They’re slightly footy because they’re so odd,” or “Ha-ha, who could take those silly things seriously?” But I think they should be afforded much more dignity. So much of this has been distilled through countless generations. The contemporary experience of modernity that we’re passing through now is a sort of restless discord, a feverish hand-wringing. And these structures—whether fairy lore or ritual or belief or custom found in our traditional practices—hold a lot of joy, profanity, wit, wisdom, humor, darkness, even, which is useful. They’re meaningful, they orient us, they ground us. They can help us move from disenchantment to enchantment with the world around us. When you look out across a landscape, it’s not just some bleak void—there’s a mystery and depth and richness to it. Suddenly, there’s a flash of the fantastic into the ordinary, into the everyday.

 Jonny Dillon (archivist of the National Folklore Collection at the University College of Dublin)

 

fog's sake

This is what greeted us late afternoon today. It was very silent for a Sunday and yes, beautiful. But not my beautiful.

It has been a shitty week with seemingly endless cramps and bloating and all the heavy stuff that goes with it. There are times when I hang from the door frame like a woman in labour, followed by long hot showers. More often, I feel the urge to drop the grin from the grin and bear it approach and instead kick the door frame or whatever else comes my way. Which is when R thinks it's time for the ER but so far, none of the real emergency events have occurred that I have been informed should neccessitate such a trip (vomit, blood, fever). This started after I had a strange imaging procedure on Wed morning, involving a sticky toothpaste like barium paste, and things have been going downhill since. I am hoping for an uphill turn eventually. The intestine is such a massive disappointment currently. Somehow I do believe I am on the way to possibly have some of it removed. I wonder when the day comes. Meanwhile, food intake is tricky.

My daughter was almost in tears when I told her this morning that I don't see myself going out for a meal ever again. The life of the young loses meaning without sushi or pizza. I told her that I have had my share of delicatessen, some of which I would not eat again even if healthy (octopus, bat, pig's glands, snake, escargots) and that I have excellent and fond memories of eating in amazing places on several continents. It calmed her down a bit.

The silver lining in all this is of course being retired, having time and place for distraction, for the making of bland soups in their endless variations, for gardening and staring into space while sitting in a deck chair wrapped in several warm blankets, for watching the jays flying in to elegantly pick the peanuts I place on the patio for them. Also, we cycled through glorious sunny forests yesterday and sat down for coffee in the Portuguese cafe where I watched R munch a warm pasteis de nata. Now that is something I wish to eat again one day. 

And of course, reading, this not for the first time, but the book is so amazing:

So I think there was one moment in the evolution of human language that marked a dividing line: before it we were not yet human, but after it we where.

It was probably the smalles thing, neither heroic or grand. More than likely, it was the intimate moment, probably late in the evening in the low blue quiet before dreaming, when a single human being told the very first story.

I doubt it was told to a group. If anything, it probably took shape between two people who already spent most of their time trying to talk to each other: a fussy child who needed to sleep and a mother who needed to sleep even more.

Cat Bohannon in: Eve, How the Female Body Drove 200 Million Years of Human Evolution (2023)

And finally, a poem that spells autumn for me:

    

 

Rock Me, Mercy 

    The river stones are listening
    because we have something to say.
    The trees lean closer today.
    The singing in the electrical woods
    has gone dumb. It looks like rain
    because it is too warm to snow.
    Guardian angels, wherever you’re hiding,
    we know you can’t be everywhere at once.
    Have you corralled all the pretty wild
    horses? The memory of ants asleep
    in daylilies, roses, holly, & larkspur.
    The magpies gaze at us, still
    waiting. River stones are listening.
    But all we can say now is,
    Mercy, please, rock me.

 

Yusef Komunyakaa

the news today

The garden is all autumn.

The cabbage season beckons.

The eight xmas cacti came inside and promptly started to produce buds. 

We walked for a couple of hours in the forest 

 

 

 to visit a waterfall

 

and marvel at the horizon

 

I am living in the country where in my parent's lifetime, books were burned, people were persecuted for their political, religious, personal opinions, children with disabilities were selected and institutionally murdered, where the Holocaust was invented and carried out with great precision. I am also living in a country with a long history of great thinkers, creative artists, composers, architects, painters, inventors.

In most towns and cities in my country, there are memorials, statues, museums, stepping stones, monuments, signposts, street names, commemorating resistance fighters, Jewish or Roma or Sinti or gay or otherwise persecuted citizens.

One set of my grandparents were nazis, the other tried to avoid any involvement with them, tried to keep out of it and did nothing. My parents went to school at a time when flags with the swastika were on every building, when almost all activities, from sports to music, chess to scouting were under nazi control. Both my parents remembered friends, neighbours, shop owners, public figures disappearing. My family made it through twelve years of fascist rule, too many wounds and scars to count, but safe and apart from one cousin killed in Russia alive.

Until most recently, we would almost laugh out loud when someone like trump used the word fascist or nazi. You haven't the faintest, we muttered, your idea is based on a cheap Hollywood version where the good guys win.  But now I am not so sure any more. I read this here today by Heather Cox Richardson:

Examining a number of types of Americans, she wrote that the line between democracy and fascism was not wealth, or education, or race, or age, or nationality. “Kind, good, happy, gentlemanly, secure people never go Nazi,” she wrote. They were secure enough to be good natured and open to new ideas, and they believed so completely in the promise of American democracy that they would defend it with their lives, even if they seemed too easygoing to join a struggle. “But the frustrated and humiliated intellectual, the rich and scared speculator, the spoiled son, the labor tyrant, the fellow who has achieved success by smelling out the wind of success—they would all go Nazi in a crisis,” she wrote. “Those who haven’t anything in them to tell them what they like and what they don’t—whether it is breeding, or happiness, or wisdom, or a code, however old-fashioned or however modern, go Nazi.”

Read the entire letter, I urge everybody and not just in the US. This could happen anywhere. Trump, coronavirus, the Russian attack on Ukraine and Hamas terrorism have only been the triggers that have made a change visible, which in turn lies more in the reactions to these events. Epidemics, wars and terrorist organisations have happened before. The insecurity they trigger has more to do with the fact that we cannot find an appropriate response to them. We withdraw, stop reading the news, shrug and concentrate on the mundane, dinners, shopping, gardening. There don't seem to be any institutions left to handle crises effectively. Instead, it looks more and more that it's not who is right that wins, but simply who is stronger. Is it just me that finds this scary? 

There are days when I try to reassure myself that all fascist states have failed eventually and utterly, some sooner  (Germany 12 years), a few lasted longer (Portugal, Spain), but they collapsed nevertheless. 

Because: people stopped them. People. Like us. We are people.

Also, climate change could speed it all up dramatically.

 

no children

 

Today, we were meant to attend a wedding in a castle in Ireland, the whole shebang, dress code, timetable on specially printed stationary, cousins and counsins and cousins and eventually food and drink followed by speeches and dancing. But, printed on page 2 of the invitation with exclamation mark, strictly no children. I was conflicted, debating how to react and so on. We had composed a friendly letter wishing them a lovely day (without adding the snarky stuff like hoping there would not be any foolish mess, that nobody would be knocking down the decorations or singing out of tune or otherwise mess with the protocol) and declined due to other stuff like a couple of health issues and medical exams and so on - chronic illness comes in handy at time - and so, we are not going and won't really be missed. I haven't been to many weddings as we come from a generation of people who, if it had to happen, opted for the potluck variety and kept it down to a minimum of commercial fuss. My idea of a wedding is bit like a barn dance thing with kites flying and a couple of very cosy bean bags for the older relatives, a hot tub under the full moon and many candles. But it seems times have changed. No children.

As a sort of punishment, today, I feel like mush, shaky, tired mush.
For the last couple of hours I have been debating with myself about going out, walking down to the river - at least that far! - or maybe take the bicycle and get some cottage cheese and a fresh bag of peanuts for the jays, or find any other excuse reason to get up and move.

There's this thing that I have cultivated in the last year or so, the thing about pushing myself no matter what. And usually, it works. By the time I am up and outside walking or cycling or doing yoga or cleaning the fridge, wiping down basement walls, scrubbing the skirting boards or raking up leaves from the front door steps, I am energised and fine. For a while. I actually did rake the leaves earlier and come to think of it, I did scrub the skirting boards, even cleaned away a million spiderwebs from behind the radiators and changed the sheets on the beds this morning.
There was a time when I actually felt somehow strangely entitled to Take It Easy and taught myself to Own It and all that stuff they tell you when you are first diagnosed with a chronic illness. For reasons unknown (today), I have left all that behind or at least pretend that I did. Look at me, I would tell that woman in the hall mirror, I am off to walk 20,000 steps and when I come back, I will clean the 12 windows downstairs or dust behind the bookshelves for another hour. Meanwhile, the man tells me that I had very little sleep last night and that in his opinion, I should maybe better not . . . I get it.

 

It is still possible to be kind to yourself,
to drop constraints and fall often
to your knees, it’s not too late now, to bow
to what beckons, the world still swimming
around you as you kneel transfigured
by what sweeps on, it’s still possible
to leave every fearful former self
in the wake of newly-heard words
issuing from an astonished mouth.

David Whyte

autumn week

It's been a hard week, physically, but the mood has been surprisingly cheerful. We are eleven days into October, then comes November, December and before we know it, the days will get longer again. Time flies. Autumn is late this year, colourwise. 

 

 

This is the cemetery I visit quite often. At this time of the year, it really should not be that green. 

Temperaturewise (is that a word?) it's autumn, I wore my winter jacket for the first time this evening.

 

We harvested all the pumpkins and have eaten some already, here's the rest.

 

 

 

Basically, I am exhausted. But not always, not all the time. I wouldn't be able to hold down a job right now. My siblings are confused, tell me how well I look and how fit I am, what with walking and stuff. 

A person with a chronic disease should not look so normal.

Anyway, been through this so many times.

Here are two nice little videos that came my way this week, first from rural New Zealand:

next from a laundry room near you:

Between two hospital procedures

Without much discussion or preparation, we took the car and drove south on the slow country roads, turning uphill at the valley entrance. The road got narrower as it wound its way up and up, it came to an end beside an old chapel where we parked the car. It was sunny but quite chilly, we walked briskly. 

The view was spectacular, the forest welcoming and silent.

Eventually, we needed coffee and other types of sustenance, so we made our way back to the car. Isn't it great to be retired, R said while he drove us home.

blue is my colour

Once again, autumn descends in a flash, last Saturday, we were sweating it out in the city, listening to street musicians, licking ice cream and today, we are debating whether it's time to heat the house. When I set off on my bicycle this morning, I put on mittens! Not the thick ones but mittens nevertheless.

It's been a bit of an exhausting week what with blood and stool sampling and gruesome results and all that it entails (change of meds, mostly) and the urge to basically sleep A Lot. And there I was about to celebrate a month without doctor's visits. Still the relief when a slightly alarming diagnosis confirms what my body had been telling me in recent week, with increasing urgency. But hey, I am an old hand at this game and so did all the right things incl. a three hour wait in A&E.

Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semitransparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.

Virginia Woolf

And once again, there it is staring into my face, this for-ever narrative, unable to find a linear explanation for the state I am in.  It's fruitless, at this point in time, apparently inevitable, but I admit, it's hard, so hard to carry it like a middle name, the disease, the diagnosis, the inevitable consequences. Plus, the new angle, the one when . . .  at your age . . . I must apparently not expect too much improvement.

But then again, I do know there are ways to change it, even if there may be circumstances that won't make change possible (like, your immune system is fucked), I can and will, once again, challenge the way I view it, the way I place myself in it, battle with the victimhood I so easily could accept. The way it seems inevitable. Only, I just don't have the energy for it right now. It'll come. I am in a safe place. We harvested all the pears, all the apples and all the pumpkins. What could possibly go wrong.

To celebrate life and to cheer myself up, I am seriously contemplating to purchase this dress all the way from Jaipur, Rajasthan, India ( https://www.nilajaipur.com/). Blue is my favourite colour. In our conversations, we establish this fact almost daily, the grandchild and myself. The grandchild does a lot of drawing and colouring.

 

stay awake and tender

 

winter bird food in the making

 It is better to wear out than to rust out. Did I read that or did somebody say this?

Anyway, I am working hard on the wearing out bit, not a chance of rusting. The purpose of my activities is to fall into bed exhausted at the end of the day after having done too many things to remember. But I do spend a considerable amount of my time in the basement sorting and cleaning with the vague hope that I will feel so much better once the rooms underneath our living space will resemble something Martha Stewart would approve of. Also, the new washing machine needs a suitable environment and we are running out of storage space for the bottled pears and the gallons of freshly produced grape juice. 

the onset of winter veg, aka brassica season

 

I also went on my walk before lunch and cycled before dinner. While I enjoyed both activities, I had neither lunch nor dinner as this whole thing about energy dense nutrition is currently not quite coming along as planned. I am working on it though and chopped up the first fat pumpkin for soup tomorrow.

Earlier, I baked an apple pie, the old fashioned way, following a recipe I cut from The Irish Times about 40 years ago. R enjoyed it immensely, he said. I enjoyed watching him eat. Some days, I feel very sorry for myself because of all the restrictions a twisted intestine brings but most days I remind myself of all the weird and wonderful meals I have had and how lucky I have been. Or should I say, entitled.

These are my thoughts in preparation of the next gastrology appointment on Thursday. My expectations are low but I have started the requested food intake diary.

general mayhem with asters

 

Ok so, the state of the world. There are people in this country who are adamant that not all populists, right-wing zealots are nazis just as not all members of Hitler's national socialist party were nazis (good grief, it's in the name, folks) and that one must distinguish and not lump them all together, but that obviously all immigrants are terrorists and/or criminals and therefore, we must shut our borders, regardless of international or EU law or whatever.

Also, according to these not-all-are-nazis smartasses, those-up-there should stop telling the people what to do and what is really needed is a strong leader. Spot the error.

Two things I found:

 and what a surprise

autumn

Today was the last day of summer. Rain and a considerable drop in temperatures forecast from tomorrow. I spent the day outside nursing my aches and pains and my foul mood. It has been a wonderful late summer day, clear air, plenty of wasps, the kids from the Baptist family across the garden playing Pharao and Joseph, or maybe Moses. They were hysterically shouting attack and I found you! 

I just sat there most of the time, dozing and breathing and keeping it together, after a bad night. Things can only get better.

On Friday, I stood in a large crowd in the city listening to an open-air performance of Beethoven's 5th symphony.  The stage was placed right beside the cathedral, built in the 11th century as the burial place for two Roman soldiers who were beheaded by the Roman emperor of the time because they had converted to Christianity or something like that. Every religion has its martyrs and these two, Florentius and Cassius, eventually became the city's saints. Still two of the most popular boy names here.

Anyway, not my saints. Also the fact that Beethoven himself was actually born here in this city does not affect me the way it does the endless stream of mostly Asian tourists who patiently wait in long queues to document on social media that they are indeed in front of his former house or have climbed on one of the various statues of the man and purchase all the touristy stuff laid out for them, including Beethoven tea and Beethoven wine and Beethoven chocolates, also Beethoven tote bags and Beethoven socks, obviously.

While I was listening to the second movement of Beethoven's fifth, I looked up and the sky was just beautiful, all sunset pink without a cloud and a flock of pigeons circling the cathedral towers. The second movement of this symphony is one of my favourite pieces of classical music - and I am not a classical music person - and as always, it made me cry a bit. But maybe also, because I was thinking of how much my father would have enjoyed that evening, the air, the light, the birds, the music. I do miss him at times.

 

 

Tomorrow, a new washing machine will be delivered to us. This is a milestone, as always, and hopefully it will be the last washing machine in our lives. It will be washing machine number six. I am now going to write about all the washing machines we ever had, so if this is not your thing, you can stop reading here.

As background, I must mention that after years of scraping together sufficient means to feed the laundrettes during my student years, a real personal washing machine was a game changer.

The first one was a large top loader and it wasn't really ours. Its purchase had been decided after a heated debate during a housing meeting of the commune we lived in at the time and top loader because one of the communards had strong feelings regarding cats being accidentally locked inside and washed to death. It basically ran all the time because it was used by various groups and committees and campaigns. Approval for all voted for at house meetings, of course. 

The second washing machine was smuggled past the customs in that tiny African country we had moved to. Initially, we did what our neighbours did, we bashed our soapy laundry onto a concrete slab behind the house and provided there was no water stoppage on the day, spent ages rinsing it. When I heard through the grapevine that a consignment of Yugoslav washing machines was due to arrive at the port, we developed a complicated scheme whereby I posed as the girlfriend of a newly arrived Belgian diplomat we had bribed with drinks and excellent freshly grilled tuna on banana leaves to insist that a new washing machine was urgently required by me, his future diplomatic wife, with full approval of his embassy since no ordinary person would have a chance to even look at such an item without large sums changing hands. Probably everybody involved - from the customs officials to the stamp duty collector and the taxi driver and their families and friends - spotted the ruse and as expected, our standing in society was elevated by a couple of steps with much nodding and winking.

For a while, this washing machine was a major attraction and we had many visitors to sit and watch until it eventually, luckily only a few weeks before our departure, met a dramatic end when a couple of fat cockroaches electrocuted themselves in a nest they had built behind the dial switch, almost setting the house on fire. 

Number three was purchased in a mad rush on Boxing Day after our return to Dublin, the day of the year when people get up really early to avail of the xmas sale bargains, we opted for the cheapest model. When we moved to Germany a year later, number four had to be purchased as the cheapness of our Irish model did not comply with the safety stipulations of our landlord at the time. And number five was purchased to celebrate the mortgage approval when we bought the house and gave up its ghost after many useful years in the basement laundry room.

Exciting stuff, yes?

encounters

A hot, humid rainy day. I brush up the remains of August, I am ready for autumn, I think. The artist living across from us, the one with a mental health issue, has been calling out from her upstairs window for at least an hour, her long grey curly hair is getting wet in the rainy gusts. It's a high pitched lament about something. I occasionally catch the odd word, nazi, pig, poison, cats. She does this at night as well and it will only be a matter of time before someone calls the police again. Last week as I saw her opening her front door, I briefly considered walking up to her and turned into her driveway - which is covered in small statues and crockery and bowls filled with broken glass and many sheets of paper with faded messages - but as I got closer, she lifted a hammer she had in her hand and hissed at me. I am considering calling social services although it will probably result in her being sectioned again and what do I know.

Last night I attended a meeting organised by our city's climate change committee where the various goals and achievments were patiently explained - once again. The 1000 fruit trees planted this year, the solar panels now on almost all supermarkets and school buildings, that kind of stuff. The first remark at the question and answer session afterwards came from an elderly guy who basically explained that it's all too little too late and what about the cherry trees in his street and anyway, who can insulate old buildings and all the faults of heat pumps and so on. Thankfully, someone cut him short with "if not now then when" and I realised that I had held my breath while he spoke, I was so mad. Eventually, during the informal part, with my glass of water in hand, I approached him with a couple of suggestions, especially regarding the cherry trees but he cut me short when I mentioned a website - I am not on social media! - and when I offered him a cell phone number of the tree activist group, he fiercely shook his head because, no cell phones either. I gave up.

We went walking a while back, deep in the country and through the woods. People have been living here since the 16th century.

 And write their life motto on the truss beams. 

 

This one is in the local dialect Allzevell es onjesond - too much is unhealthy.

 

balancing

 

There were many things I wanted to do this week, outings, odd jobs around the house and garden, a spectacular walk down a deep ravine on the other side of the river but by Tuesday evening, after I finally got my fully repaired bicycle back (it was like greeting a long lost friend) it became apparent that reality doesn’t need me to help operate it. It gets along just fine without my input and as the almost forgotten but most familiar first waves of vertigo began to wash over me, I had to realise that life right now is not going to be my problem to be solved. And so to bed and much sleep and drowsy days struggling with balance.

 

The positive aspect, much appreciated, is that being retired, I don't have to crawl to a doctor to get a sick certificate which then has to be sent to the employer in order to get paid while recovering. 

 

By the end of day two, I was back sitting upright and reading wonderous stuff.

 

Like this:

    I was wondering about the pyramids in Egypt. Why are there three pyramids?  . . . And I didn’t know very much about it, but . . .  I made this thought experiment: I would bet that they were not built like one pyramid, and then 500 years later, another pyramid. I bet it was just one crazy period when they made these three pyramids, because it’s not possible to build one pyramid. If you’re going to build one pyramid and have 40,000 people build a pyramid for forty years, you don’t stop doing that. You don’t just say, “Thank you, you can go home now,” because if you are building a pyramid with 40,000 people, for forty years, that’s what your economy is about. It’s about building pyramids.

    You have, suddenly, generations, because people lived a shorter life then. So suddenly you have two or three generations that don’t remember anything other than working on this pyramid, and the whole supply chain of your country is about making the ropes, cutting the stones—the whole hierarchy of the society is about where you are in building the pyramid, from the chief architect, to the lowest slave, to the people supplying this structure. If you stop building a pyramid, you have chaos. If you just say, “Go home now.” You don’t tell people just to go home and do something, because they have been used to having an assigned job for forty years. They’ll ask, “What do I do now?” Naturally, they start building another pyramid, because that’s the only way to keep the society and the structure whole, and after eighty years, nobody even has the idea that there should not be another pyramid. It’s just a question of how much bigger the pyramid should be, so it’s not until they have built the third pyramid that some people start scratching their heads, like OK, so we’re going to build a fourth? A fifth? Can this go on like this?

    And they hear rumors from Greece where not everyone is a slave, just every other person is a slave. And they have these amphitheaters, and they watch tragedies, so they get this news about alternative ways of life. Then I looked into the archaeology research, and it was actually true. The pyramids, the Great Giza Pyramids, were built in a crazy span of 120 years, and I think that now, with the climate strikes, that we finally have a generation that is seriously questioning.

    They don’t want to build pyramids anymore, and they don’t see the sense of it, and they don’t understand, why am I toiling my whole life, dragging myself to some job, just to have this metal case around me that we call cars? Why are we putting all these resources into these roads, and highways, and these ramps, and all this? They’re questioning everything, the foundations of what we are doing and why we’re doing it, because they see the damage of it, so I think that this generation that is now climate striking will bring the change on a much faster level than we’ve seen before, that is, change in how we eat and how we dress. Their dreams will be different from the dreams that we had, because their dreams are against a real threat.

 Andri Snær Magnason

hopefulness is a warrior emotion

Over breakfast this morning on the patio, we reminded each other that has been 45 years since we started our life together, during an unseasonally warm, almost hot August way out in the west of Ireland, Connemara. It is what it is.

While the days continue to be hot and muggy, the mornings are pleasantly cool now, with the sun rising later allowing for morning shadow beside the pear trees on the patio. Strange as it is, the wasps and bees are keeping their distance. We invited neighbours and their friends to help themselves to the Victoria plums at their own risk (re insects and ladder) and people have picked buckets of them. There's still loads left, higher up. Tomorrow, I will look at a second hand automatic preserver someone down the road is selling. This should solve the pear situation.

It's been a hard week, my bicycle has been in for service/repair for two weeks now. I am bereft. 

My food intake has been dismal. We are discussing long distance travel now in light of this and agreed that I need to seek medical opinion first. I can see myself in some airport transit lounge hugging my bloated abdomen - not.

So this here offers some balm.

solastalgia

 

Just after 10 am in the morning. All the shades are down, the house is cool and dark-ish, while outside it's getting hotter and hotter. I thought myself very clever and went for an hour's walk along the river in the early sunlit morning before breakfast and returned home with sweat dripping from my nose. It's the kind of heat when I would tie my hair up if it was long enough.

I am now sharing the room with one fly and an almost silently whirring stand-up fan. 

A week ago, while standing on a ladder picking ripe mirabelle plums, I was stung by at least one bee and maybe a couple of wasp simultaneously and all that within seconds. I get a lot of mileage out of that fact. I also had to go to the GP for the appropriate medical attention because my heart when out of rhythm for a good while and the left hand, where most of the action took place, was a swollen red balloon. We counted six stings in fingers and thumb, all of which are still in there and itching but I can use my hand again. So, yesterday, I picked a couple more mirabelle plums and humbly sacrificed the remaining lot to our insect rulers.

 

In reality, I have a hard time eating or rather, digesting fresh ripe fruit and this is sad, really sad, but needs must. The third expert opinion still outstanding, I have resigned to the shape of things and the limited diet options and decided to just get on with it.

 

We are in a debate about long distance travel and family visits and the CO2 emissions of twice 33 hrs flying across the planet and personal principles and the future of our grandchild and all other grandchildren in this world and responsibilities and excuses and what if not now and but the planes fly anyway and and. Currently, the man is getting deeper involved into scientist4future protests while I am trying to fool myself with a deal that involves looking at flight options and going completely vegan. Watch this space.

Solastalgia is a neologism, formed by the combination of the Latin words sōlācium (comfort) and the Greek root -algia (pain, suffering, grief), that describes a form of emotional or existential distress caused by environmental change. It is best described as the lived experience of negatively perceived environmental change. A distinction can be made between solastalgia linked to distress about what is in the process of negatively perceived change and eco-anxiety linked to what may happen in the future (associated with "pre-traumatic stress", in reference to post-traumatic stress).

found somewhere

 

 

 

 

fruit trees and ants and a penguin

 

abundant sloe (blackthorn) harvest this year, will soon become liqueur

Today, I got the shakes, which is what I call a day with no get-up-and-go, no energy, when every task has to be reduced to its minimum. These days come and go. I've picked a handful of blueberries and a bowl of mirabelle plums before it got too hot to rummage in the garden. R bravely trimmed the hedge. My mood is lousy, I am prone to angry arguments and have been sulking a bit. Cannot remember what caused it but at least I have a good excuse to withdraw and do nothing, not even thinking.

 

almost too many pears

 

and plums

and the vegetables

Here are some thoughts and stuff that came my way recently. I listened to a lecture by Nigerian philosopher/psychologist Bayo Akomolafe:

In a death spiral (otherwise called ant milling), ants seemingly become fixated in a lethal cycle of sorts. Entomologists believe that some kind of pheromonic accident occurs when the cartographical chemical loops on itself, compelling the ants to keep going round and round, probably intensifying their pacing in the hopes of arriving home.

But they rarely do. If you were an ant, it would be very difficult to shake yourself free from the trance of a death spiral. On the other hand, it would be dangerously easy – it seems – to believe that the next unrelenting step would bring you closer home. In most death spirals observed, the ants march in their crazed continuity, sometimes for days, come rain or sunshine, and then die out of exhaustion, the hopes for a safe arrival lingering over their little bodies like pheromonic ghosts unsure of where to go.

The ant’s death spiral is a multi-species phenomenon, involving human onlookers and their speculations about ant society. Who knows how it comes to be that ants seemingly march in a circle – sometimes as large as a football stadium or as small as could fit on an office table – and then die afterwards? It’s impossible to say for sure what is happening. And yet, we would be remiss if we didn’t heed the ancient warning to learn from ants.

What do death spirals tell us about the constancy of the modern quest for solutions to critical civilization-baring problems and the subsequent realizations that these applications often retain the logic of the problem, perhaps even fortifying the conditions that led to the issue in the first place? Perhaps we can begin to speak about ‘anthro-milling’, not just ant milling: the enlistment of expertise and human agency in territorial patterns of repetition. A trance that whispers we’ll be home – if only we persist in what we already know…

Because one theoretical way an ant can break out of its trance is if it became infected by a fungus, like ophiocordyceps unilateralis – the zombie-ant fungus. Once infected, an ant breaks away from holding patterns and strays, getting lost in the forest, far away from incarcerating concepts of arrival and the anxieties about identity. Somewhere mandible-deep in the underside of a leaf, the zombie-ant becomes an art-form for fungal sporulation – no longer ant nor fungus, but now a curious living-dying betweenness that produces new kinds of worlds.

I cannot emphasize enough how important it is for us – citizens gestating in modern demise – to think along with the monstrous, to think along with the edges, to map out new realities.

Bayo Akomolafe

And I listened to a conversation between Werner Herzog and the physicist Lawrence Krauss. I could listen to Werner Herzog's voice forever, his Bavarian-English accent is a thing of beauty. It's a long conversation and I listened to it in instalments while I knitted the grandchild's cardigan. There are of course many anecdotes, stories from his childhood and weird stuff that happened when directing his movies and documentaries and writing opera scripts and books and so on. Here's one story about his grandfather:

". . . my grandfather . . . (in) the last years of his life, he was demented or insane. And he did not recognise his wife anymore and he would sit at dinner table and address her as madam . . .  and one night he folded his napkin, put his cutlery cleanly on the table, stood up and bowed to her. And he said to her: Madam, if I were not married, I would ask for your hand."

In this conversation, there's no mention of the existential penguin from the documentary "Encounters at the End of the World" (2007), which in my humble opinion is essential viewing. (Full video is available on youtube, click here.) So here's the penguin, he/she has been part of my imagination for years, Werner Herzog's accent, by the way, is nothing like my English accent despite the fact that I also come from Bavaria - but learned to speak English in Ireland.

only a dream and lots of walking

Last night or rather early this morning, I had the weirdest dream and I don't usually remember my dreams and when I do, I don't really pay any attention to them. I used to when I was young and innocent, in a searching kind of way, and for a while even wrote them down in a pretty little dream diary - which eventually made its way into the deep below the bed world.

In today's dream, I was visited by a medical crew, a group of smart looking youngsters in uniforms, who stood around my bed reading out various diagnoses and observations from charts. I knew right away that this was a scam and somehow ended up talking with them and it turned out they were desperate, had been forced into this. Meanwhile R had called the police and in the end, we both helped them to get away safely before the police arrived. Seriously, what?

So last week I did a LOT of walking, in fact every day, including up a very steep hill on a medieval stations-of-the-cross walk through ancient forest across the river, complete with statues and crosses and I seriously suffered along what with the heat and the climb but I made it and on top, joined the lazy tourists who had driven up there. I usually walk alone or with R who doesn't talk much but points out plants and fungi and stuff like that in his best science teacher mode. But on Friday, I went for a longish walk with a friend who had just been through a nasty divorce and in the end we had walked for close to  three hours round and round the large central cemetery until she had most of it off her chest. We also noted how there are less graves and increasingly more (managed) wild flower fields and bee hives and biotopes ponds which I was informed is due to outrageous funeral and burial plot maintenance costs.

It's the time of summer when we hand out courgettes and pears to anybody silly enough to come near us and possibly some neighbours have gone into hiding by now.

A few thoughts on recent events and why there is no time to rest and sit back and laugh about silly social media memes.

. . .  misogyny is one of the most dangerous weapons on Earth. The best friend of authoritarians and oligarchs. The handmaiden of tyrants.

. . .  it’s misogyny – networked misogyny across multiple global platforms that will earn their tech bro owners billions upon billions of dollars – that is going to decide the 2024 election. And it’s misogyny that’s going to dictate the future of Nato, the outcome of the war in Ukraine, whether we have peace in Europe or more war. And because this is going to be a firehose that will be directed at a single woman – Kamala Harris – it will be misogyny multiplied: misogyny plus racism, the most toxic combination of all.

They used to call us witches because we knew shit. We still do. That’s what makes us so powerful. And dangerous. 

So, here’s what I need you to do now: to shut up and sit down and listen. You are at risk. We are all at risk. Because this is what I know: bad things are coming. We are in a code red emergency.

Because misogyny isn’t bad people saying bad things that may hurt your feelings. (Though it might.) And misogyny isn’t about silencing women. (Though it does.)

Misogyny is now one of the deadliest weapons on Earth. Misogyny is a dirty bomb in the heart of our information system. Misogyny is electoral interference. Misogyny is a national security threat so lethal we can’t even see it.

Because misogyny is invisible. It’s never about all women, it’s always just about one particular, disagreeable woman who just happens to not be very likeable. Or competent. Who is loud or “shrill” or annoying or who got the job because she slept with a man. Or because she was a diversity hire. A woman who can’t even run her own house let alone a country. A woman who is “nasty”. A woman who isn’t and cannot be the strong leader a nation needs. Enjoy the sunshine of the Kamala moment. Breathe in the clean fresh air of facts, of evidence, of information. Of hope. Before the toxic social media chimneys crank up the content. Because shortly, the particulates will arrive, will silently and stealthily and invisibly start clogging our bronchial pathways even as the billionaire bros who own the platforms rake in record profits. 

Soon, we won’t even notice. It’ll just be part of the air that we breathe. A choking toxic misogynistic stew that will silently pour over the culture war trenches like mustard gas. Darkness is coming. This is the world social media created. And we’re much further out than we thought.

Carol Cadwalladr

and there's always that

I would be puzzled to know, if I were in Putin’s position, how to run Donald Trump as my asset. I have no doubt that they have obtained him, and they could probably blow him out of the water whenever they felt like it, but I think they are having much more fun feeding his contradictions and con-tributing to the chaos. ‘The terrifying thing is, the closer he draws to Putin, the more he lies and denies, the stronger his support among the faithful. You don't need to own Trump as an agent. You just have to let him run.

John le Carré
Letter to William Burroughs
23rd July 2018

source: Shaun Usher, Letters of Note

death and a crater

It's sticky and thundery. In the last couple of days, I went for the walk first thing in the morning to avoid the heat. Not sure whether that's the best idea as I end up getting the shakes half way but this is suburbia and there are many benches and walls and stuff for a short rest. A few days ago, I bravely walked the perimeter of an ancient volcanic crater. It only took us three hours of climbing through dense forest but the water was intensely green and still and wonderful to look at. We were the only people around so nobody could hear my whiny voice complaining about the heat and the insects and that R was walking too fast.

Malbergsee

Mostly, I am cranky and seem to have lost my manners but my excuse is that I have been living on a boring bland diet for almost a year now with not a chance of improvement. At least I can do coffee and I am a sucker for porridge and toast. The man has developed some bland soup recipes with fresh garden produce incl. herbs. Soups are really boiled green smoothies, I tell myself. And they do taste good. Good enough. A decent week is one with little or no weight loss. And concentrating on that helps to ignore some other symptoms the expert has noted at the regular check-up last week, at least for while. 

blackberries almost ready

Today, we cycled to the fancy French cafe, in between heavy thunder storms, and while we sat under the awning sipping gorgeous cafe au lait, discussed burial options and costs. I had this dream that both of us had died and our daughter arrived here, jet-lagged and, out of her mind, began tearing her beautiful hair out. 

So we are now putting together instructions and the necessary funds. Current favourite is getting an undertaker from across the border in Holland, which unlike here, would allow collecting the ashes and spreading it where and when anybody wants to. While in Germany the laws are much stricter, you cannot spread ashes willy nilly everywhere. We next imagined her trying to get two urns past NZ customs and started to have the giggles. Anyway, lots to investigate and we are serious about preparations.

poor shot of the bees

We are both old now, more or less, and getting used to it. And while we are clearing out stuff, sorting through papers, preparing our burials, it's just old age, it's not waiting for death, it's life. Our lives will come to an end, it has happened to billions of people before and it will happen to everyone alive, everyone we know. The man is fit and healthy, I am not. Anything can happen.

summer and superpowers and the life of Riley

 

I am very proud of my neat herb bed

It's been very hot, often very windy and in between close and grey and humid. We had heavy thunderstorms, heavy rain and today, it's sticky and grey. Whatever we may think, the garden is doing extremely well. Until a few days ago, I sat for a while every morning shelling the peas that R brought me. Now they are either eaten or in the freezer. We continue to argue about the soft fruit which according to my thinking should be eaten straight away in large handfulls while he believes in freezing it for a rainy cold day of jam making. Let's see what happens when the plums and the peaches are ripe. Any day now. Also, runner beans and courgettes and tomatoes and some lovely fat beetroot. It's also an excellent apricot year but they need to be washed - because stinkbugs. The man has started a big jar of cassis with the fat blackcurrants.

no more peas

Early in the mornings and again after sunset, if we are very quiet for a moment, we can hear the snails holding their fat bellies with laughter. They know, of course, that we grow lettuce and basil, fennel, kohlrabi and beetroot for ourselves. They think it's all a big joke. But we are not without our own menacing thoughts and means and, what can I say, ready for war and it looks like we are winning. But hush, let's not jinx it.

this is the covid patch, the bit we've left idle since lockdown

I used to be that person who could be observed devising schemes for ants, fruit flies or spiders to find their way out of the kitchen without loss of lives. On good days, you could hear me talking to them with heartfelt encouragement, even giving the last ant group a gentle push with the small duster. All for my good karma.

tons of finger aubergines

But honestly, the spiritual and I have not become friends. I probably lack the discipline, or my despair of the world has subsided somewhat. In the limited human reality, I now also find things that make me happy and keep me going. Actually, I always have. I wouldn't be where I am now if it was all gloom and despair. It's just so much more fun to complain and moan.

I've been thinking about all that recently. Someone, a long time ago, told me that not being religious (he meant not being a catholic) was cheap and stupid, leaving the hard work of salvation and whatever else to others while living the life of Riley (who and where is Riley now?). That I should be ashamed of myself. Another person, in a more serious debate, was confounded by the fact that my child, who was not raised with the fear of god and nothing about sins, was spending huge chunks of her time and energy doing what he called good, selfless work. How could this be, her wondered. A heathen child! Indeed. Dear gods, I am so proud of this heathen child, you have no idea.

I'll never understand it but I admit there are days when I wish I could just hand it all - fears, hopes, needs - to some higher force and say, get on with it, give me the rules and I'll fit them in. If only. But then again, how dull and predictable.

I wonder what the gods had in mind when they created Tapinoma magnum, an invasive ant species that used to live predominantly in the Mediterranean basin but has - thank you climate change! - found its way closer and closer to my home. Not there yet, but already established in towns and gardens at the southern end of the big river we live on. Their nests grow to several metres in size and the colonies comprise millions of workers and hundreds of queens. And individual colonies do not fight each other like other species, they co-operate and form the United States of Antsikia, an insect superpower. The shape of things to come.