solar energy

It's very hot, as predicted, and some of the media are in a frenzy looking for the place and time when the next record is broken. As if it's a competition. And the winner is? We are keeping the house cool the way we always did, sleeping in the basment, using the early hours for gardening and so on. It works, for now.

The solar battery is full, every gadget in the house is running on sunshine, plus we are feeding the grid and also some neighbourhood homes. I suppose it's not strictly legal, cables through gardens are involved, but the sun shines and shines for free. It's amazing what PV on a little roof space, shaded for half the day, can produce.

I am sort of walking or better call it hobbling, limping along. No more moon boot. The physio people are "optimistic", another three months give and take, they assure me. Another three months??!! But hey, I can cycle now and yes, that's brilliant. 

Meanwhile. 

Certain resources (he is talking about water) must be allocated and prioritised for the technology rather than for human consumption.

Biological limits are real, but digital potential is infinite. If we starve our data infrastructure of cooling resources just to sustain baseline human comfort, we are actively delaying the birth of a super-intelligence that could solve all of our resource problems in the first place.

Sometimes you have to prioritise the intelligence that will save us over the biology that slows us down.

Jeff Bezos 

 

To clarify. Access to water and sanitation are recognized by the United Nations as human rights – fundamental to everyone’s health, dignity and prosperity.

A few years ago, five tech billionaires, who shall remain anonymous, invited Douglas Rushkoff (professor of media theory and digital economics) to a luxury spa – for a fee equivalent to a third of his annual salary. 

Contrary to his expectations, the super-rich were not seeking investment advice on future technologies but instead asked about survival in the wake of a potential catastrophe, which they refered to simply as ‘the event’.

Should one flee to Alaska, New Zealand or Mars? 
Should they start securing their food supplies with special locks, the combinations to which only they knew. Or  fit their bodyguards with a sort of disciplinary collar in return for their survival at their side. And what about robots that could be used as bodyguards or labourers.

Of all people, these tech entrepreneurs whose neo-colonial production conditions are ruining entire continents now want to escape and leave the rest of humanity behind.

We have to make do with what we have, even if right now it seems completely inadequate and suboptimal, in an attempt not to resign ourselves to it, but to cope and to let our potential grow and above all, to remain comitted to humanity.  Is it normal for human beings to be unable to imagine what a better world would even be like? Hopelessness isn’t natural. It needs to be produced.  

People everywhere are asking; how did we get here? Most of them say - surely it was them, those people over there that caused this. And the people over there turn and point their fingers right back at them, which results in everyone being implicated and none being responsible. But that trick will no longer work. We can no longer escape responsibility for our collective choices. This is a time of accelerated accountability for our species, not just some, but all. The age of deflection is dying away. We must all take responsibility for the state of our world because we all possess the power to change it – when we work together. But when we fail to check the recklessness and cruelty of foolish men or to shake ourselves from the fantasies that we weave around them, we all suffer the consequences of their folly. Therefore, we have become necessary allies in the unfolding of a new reality.

 Sherri Mitchell
 

 

 

literally

 

In a strange way it is only now, after almost three months, that I am adjusting to what has happened. Three days ago, the horizontal syndesmosis screw was taken out (a short outpatient procedure under local anaesthetics) and physiotherapy is commencing next week!

I have been walking, if we may call it that, ie unaided and on my own two feet, every day around the house, in the garden and short distances in town.  

 

Not funny, not easy but getting there probably eventually. I compensate my lack of foot work with furious weight lifting and sitting down yoga/pilates whatever sessions. Not allowed to cycle or drive for another two weeks. I could just try it but if I knock down someone's dog or worse, insurance will not cover.

Cabin fever is setting in, R thinks I am slightly mad. We argue and we laugh and argue again and then we laugh and watch some crap on tv or debate the end of the world as we know it. 

The grandchild's current favourite English word is literally, the favourite German word is Gurke (cucumber). Also, air quotation is now a thing. 

Summer at least. I spent close to an hour last night topping and tailing strawberries. There's always that day when the novelty wears off and we turn to jam making.

 

Two . . . young hunters rescued a dragonfly stuck in the mud. It gave them the usual wishes you get in these stories. One wished to be the smartest man in the world. The dragonfly said, ‘So you shall be.’ But the second hunter wanted to be smarter than the smartest man in the world. . . . So the dragonfly converted the second hunter into a woman.

Tony Hillerman  

translation Prawns! I forgot to get the prawns . .

 

give it time

Yesterday I had a melt down. It was a long time coming. In fact, I had been waiting and hoping for it for weeks, like a great cleansing, a wave washing over me. It wasn't anything like it, just exhausting and snotty.

Earlier I had spent two hours with the orthopedic surgeon who will take over the recovery treatment now that I am back in the German health system. Everything looks as it should be, I am still walking with the moon boot, for another week when the screw inside my ankle joint will be removed. He had me walking a short distance without the boot and well, it's not what I call walking. Neither the foot nor the leg seem to be aware of what is required. Yet. All around me smiled reassuringly and there will be a physio plan and give it time and muscle building and more give it time and so on and I smiled too and then we had a coffee at the French place and when we got home, I started to sob like a baby for a good while.

I am all over the place with conflicting feelings. One the one hand, I want to concentrate on getting my mobility back, working hard at it with all that I can, while on the other hand, I want to lose myself in this summer, the colours, the sounds, the changes, so fast, so dramatic. No thinking, no pressure, no expectations. All that give it time stuff. How does it work?

The garden is a joy as always at this time of the year. I watch it from a shy distance, not able to pick the strawberries, harvest the sweet peas. This morning's gift, a first tender kohlrabi.

 

The best outcome so far has been the amount of reading I have done. Still do. Currently, I am racing through London Falling by Patrick Radden Keefe, as recommended by all everywhere. 

Also, we are watching Legends on Netflix, hooked. I am a sucker for a good Liverpool accent anyday.

 

all things tend towards chaos

I am back, the garden has greeted me with an explosion of colours, I missed the spring abundance of lilac and tulips and wisteria, but I am not complaining. Despite the heat. In the very early morning, I am listening to the familiar bird song, wondering when the tūī and the pīwakawaka will join in. The journey home was fabulous. I was treated like royalty by two airlines, with wheelchairs waiting for me whenever needed, polite porters pushing me past security queues and into cosy lounging areas with trays of food selections to nibble. 

One last bit of New Zealand that has amazed me. The grandchild goes to primaray school, to hihi 4, as all classes are named after native birds. In the morning, the class stands together for the karakia, an incantation to welcome the day and what lies before them. There are many karakia in use, to start the day, a meeting, a journey, to come together, arrive home and so on.

This is the one that gets sung every morning by a boisterous group of seven year olds:

Whakataka te hau ki te uru
Whakataka te hau ki te tonga
Kia mākinakina ki uta
Kia mātaratara ki tai
E hī ake ana te atakura
He tio, he huka, he hau hū
Tīhei mauri ora! 

translated:

Cease the winds from the west
Cease the winds from the south
Let the breeze blow over the land
Let the breeze blow over the ocean
Let the red-tipped dawn come with a sharpened air.
A touch of frost, a promise of a glorious day.

 

I have a recording of the grandchild singing it but that's private, so here is a version from the internet, same words, same melody. 

  

In my dreams, I am falling backwards, down the stairs, out of the plane, tumbling, tumbling, through the air, endlessly.  God, I hope this is just jetlag and that it will pass eventually. But I am grateful for nights of deep sleep, evenings when I try to stay awake watching movies with R (One Battle After Ânother was a hit for both of us) every distracting phone call, all the daily rituals I can manage to remain somewhat patient, another eight days to the next orthopedic follow-up, and so on. In reality, behind my jolly calm facade, I am scared. Every tinge of pain, be it brief or dull or sharp, never - thankfully - constant, makes me gag with fear. This is all new territory, I have taken mobility for granted. How could I.

I look around, it feels unreal to even imagine that I have been away for four months.  

When I feel myself getting too smug, when I start counting all my blessings, I start to think about all the things that could go wrong. I remember that I have to die someday. Everything falls apart. All things tend towards chaos. I close my eyes against the mad torrent of panic. This is ok, I think. This is life, this is life, this is how it's meant to be.

Donal Ryan

 

 

my bags are packed

Almost. This time tomorrow I will be languishing somewhere at Auckland International waiting to board the airship to Singapore and after ten hours in the air and a brief-ish stopover at Changhi, the amazingly carpeted airport of Singapore, I shall board an even bigger airship for another 13 hours to Frankfurt, where I will reclaim the hours that were stuck onto my day when I got here thanks to dateline crossing (check Jules Verne, 80 days around the world, for detail). I will be fed excessively and probably watch season 2 of The Pitt (I watched all of season 1 on the flights here.) and if all works according to plan, I will be wheelchaired to and from cabin entrances and arrival hall. If not, I'll hobble along on my big fat black moon boot and make everybody feel thankful for having two healthy legs.

Right now I am looking out through the window onto a bright clear and sunny Wellington morning, up onto the hill behind the houses across the streets. This has been my view for the past nine weeks for long stretches of the day. 

To some this could mean the empty tunnel of being ill, immobile, helpless. To me, it has been - among many other things and thoughts - a time to float, to rebuild bones and courage and confidence in my body's efforts. As always, a work in progress.  

I would not call it a challenge because I was treated like royalty with delicatessen, story telling and reading, impromptu shows, many hours of charades, long delightful walks down memory lanes, not to forget the excellent palanquin services to allow enjoyment of the rest of the house, the patio and the garden, trips to the seaside and outpatient appointments. This after all is an experience in restitution, ie healing, a return to healthy mobility is entirely possible. The thought alone makes me happy. I am not going to be chronically hopping with a moon boot, forever unable to bear weight on that foot and so on. For someone who has to confirm manageable survival from a chronic illness by blood tests every three months, this is an amazing prospect, one that made the weeks of waiting and sitting and resting pass without too much worry.

It's autumn here, the nights are cold, the mice are coming in from the garden and Louie the cat is patiently guarding the small crack between the freezer and the cupboard for his reward. He is ready, too.

The grandchild is leaving small love notes in various places, found one stuck under my teacup earlier today, another arrived in the shape of a paper airplane through the bathroom door as I brushed my teeth.  

The final discharge letter from the Wellington Hospital Orthopaedics Department, the one I will be handing over at the follow-up in Germany, starts with "Dear Sabine, it has been a pleasure to meet you and your daughter throughout your treatment here. We are happy to see you recovering as expected. . . "

 

 

  

 Just a thought:

Global warming is man-made, it is not a fatality, and it can also be curbed by human action. Its consequences can be mitigated to some extent through adaptation.
All of this requires political action. Nothing is inevitable.

stasis diminished

Slowly slowly I am moving out of weeks of stasis, taking unaided steps with the right leg in a tight CAM boot, 24/7 for the next six weeks at least, trying not to be fearful, trying to ban all thoughts of what could possibly go wrong now. The curse of living with a chronic disease makes it hard to trust my body and her healing powers, even when the xrays show how nicely my bones have fused.

 

Still attached to the crutches and the little walker and the knee scooter, week seven after the accident. It's exhausting. And the daily 100mg of aspirin DVT prophylaxis is waking up the ulcerative colitis. But honestly, that's the least of my worries.

I booked my flight home including wheelchair assistance, managed to speak to real people of both of the involved airlines, they all promised to deliver me relaxed and supported to the man waiting at arrival. I'll leave in 19 days. The grandchild cried when I confirmed it. 

Right now I want to wrap myself in cotton wool and hide, avoiding any risks that could throw all plans out of the window again.

What else happened? A week ago, we were woken up early in the black of night on a Monday morning at 3 am with heavy rain hammering the house. And by hammering I mean loud hammering, foundation shaking hammering. We checked the house, windows, roof, all safe and dry, peered outside, called our neighbours, a flood of torchlights, shouts and then the fire trucks, sirens, loudspeaker warnings, evacuations, cars piling up at the bottom of our quiet cul-de-sac, a neighbour carried on a rescue float on a river that normally is a quiet street where kids skate and do bicycle stunts. Much damage, unprecedented amounts of rain, even the NYT reported on it, several houses evacuated, workers everywhere, people arriving with sandwiches, soup and scones and big flasks of coffee all day, all week and they still do. I mind an evacuated old dog, read storybooks to bewildered children sitting around me, hand out snacks and marvel at Wellington's pragmatic neighbourhood response. Our house, over 100 years old, sits up high, there are 46 steep and old steps from the street to the front door (I have counted them several times by now as I was transported with my non weight bearing cast by the ambulance crews) and like most of our neighbours on this side of the street, the deluge did not affect us. The worst story so far from a couple who woke because the bed was filling up with water and when they ran to the baby's room the water was just about to wash over the cot completely. A second later, he said shivering, a second later. 

Unprecedented amount of rain. Flash floods, landslides.  You can see a cyclone, a hurricane on the satellite, you can prepare for it. But for these localised pockets of torrential downpour there are no models to provide specific warnings hours in advance. This is the shape of things to come. We had 70-110mm of rain in less than one hour, that is ten times the amount of a "normal" heavy downpour.  

What next, joked one neighbour yesterday, a plague of locust? 

the new stone age

I am half way through my non weight bearing sentence, less than three weeks to go, fingers crossed, and while I am gettig pretty good at hopping and standing on one leg and of course using all the gadgets, I am slowly nursing the hope to become once again a two legged creature.  

On top of it, we all got another virus, the house has been reverberating with coughing and sneezing over Easter.  Also, we were dog-sitting a much older, much slower and totally blind but sweet and gentle and handsome version of the family dog. By day three, we all, humans, cat and dogs, had enough of it, the visiting dog decided to seek shelter on my bed where he remained for most of the time. Which somewhat impeded on my sleep.

Airline ticket prices back to Europe are going up by a thousand NZ dollars per week. 

And we watched an actual US president explain an actual war to his own citizens in what is supposed to be a democracy. What he was telling them is that Iran went from having no physical nuclear programme left at all to being on the cusp of deploying an unprecedented nuclear weapon. It did this apparently in something like six months, which would be one of the most astonishing technological achievements in all of human history.   

As a result, the president of a 250-year-old country threatened a 5,000-year-old civilisation with total annihilation including the regime’s opponents, in whom he had placed such high hopes just a few weeks ago. Never mind that he changed his mind. That it may have been just a ploy, a minor Trump-style tantrum. No big deal.

I acknowledge that Trump’s critics in the US are making their voices heard. But it seems they do so in the way one would in a normal democracy: three times a year, on Saturday afternoons, between 2 and 4 pm. Afterwards, they roll up their banners with their creative slogans and go home. A president who threatens to wipe out a civilisation must not be treated as if he is normal.

Where justice turns into injustice, resistance becomes a duty, obedience becomes a crime.

(Some sources claim this quote is from Thomas Jefferson, others that it's from Bertold Brecht, he certainly wrote it in the 1930s, but apparently it's originally from pope Leo XIII, late 19th century.)

A cyclone is approaching from Fiji, the storm warning for the weekend is orange, subject to change at any moment. I ordered wool and knitting needles, we have coffee.

between a rock and a hard place

Greetings from the stranded beetle.

The post OP cast has been removed, revealing impressive bruising and nicely healed stitches.

(Don't look if you are of the squeamish type.)

There is an equally impressive surgical suture on the other side of the foot. Inside is a shitload of metal.

And this is the new cast, I had a choice of black or pink.

And so I am now counting down the days (28) until this rock solid beauty will be removed and I can - hopefully - progress to a moon boot and some form of walking. For now, imagine me bum crawling and one-leg hopping with various helpful contraptions, twisting and turning my way from chair to walker to knee-scooter, wriggling my toes per instructions and doing a silly looking work-out to look after muscles and strength - if the dog lets me since he remains ever hopeful that I will just get up and do the stuff he thinks this granny should do and jumps for joy ontop of me when I lift my good leg and my arms.

 

This is the good story, the health recovery story. And I am feeling hopeful.

 

And then there's the rock and the hard place scenario.

 

I am in my daughter's home, I am looked after with love and care and all the attention I could wish for. I could stay here until I can use both legs at least in a way that will make it possible for me fly back home on my own  (33 hrs, two stop-overs). We think hope I will reach this stage by mid June the latest. That's one option.

 

The other option is that R comes here (yes, he remained at home in Germany for too many reasons to explain) and we both return together earlier than June with him as my travel support, probably mid May.

 

And then there are these factors to consider:

 

• daily, in fact hourly increasing airline ticket prices, especially on the best long-haul route via Singapore (the safest and "shortest" route for travel between Europe and NZ and Australia and SE Asia), I will definitely not fly via US for reasons and via Canada or Japan/Korea/China will take several days and while we are not poor, it irks and feels dramatic at the same time
• as airlines react to jet fuel shortages, flights have been cancelled already, especially on this route and booked tickets have gone into the nirvana
• once my renewed visitor visa has been approved, I will be able to stay until end of June without a chance to renew it - unless WWIII breaks out
• I will be running out of my immune suppressing medication by mid June, and as even world wide courier services are affected by reduced flight options and jet fuel prices/shortage, no guarantee of getting it in time and no it's not easily available here
• while all treatment costs of the fracture are picked up by NZ accident compensation, my international health insurfance cover for anything else that may hit me health-wise will run out by mid June

 

So we are back and forth throwing the dice and no doubt, we'll come up with something. We've lived this across-the-world life for long enough to trust that there will be a way. 

To be continued.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

on my way to the fascinating new territory

Greetings from the secret den of the stranded beetle. 

I was booked to fly to Singapore this week, imagine. I got a nice refund from Singapore Airlines and now have neither a date nor a booking to get back home. Also, I am nowhere near the F2F (fit to fly) certificate that would allow me to even book a return flight.  

As expected, we are losing the usual fight with the travel health insurance company. It happens every time I have a claim and they find some clause on page 529 that I overlooked or maybe not or a signature that's missing. Life goes on. 

I could will be here for a while.  

Meanwhile I continue with elevating the cast for 23 hrs a day and freaking out when hopping on the good leg whenever the spirit moves me as I am still in the total NWB (no weight bearing) period and have nightmares of slipping and accidentally using the cast leg. Six weeks of it I've been told, one week down, five to go.

The extremely efficient health services have supplied me with a selection of mobility aides and shower stools and handle sets for bath- and bedrooms and tomorrow I shall try the snazy knee scooter that was delivered today. The hallway is so crowded with all the gear a visitor could think we run a rehabilitation center - oh wait, that's what we do.

On Friday, the Wellington Free Ambulance Service (another example of a visionary community service) will collect me with their amphibian device to transport me down the 43 but feels like 500 steep stairs in my daughter's front garden so I can get to my next outpatient appointment. I have been told that a physiotherapist will come to the house from next week on to show me how to maintan or if necessary regain muscle power and whatever else for a decent recovery. All this is part and parcel of New Zealand's accident compensation scheme as I mentioned before.

Now, before we get carried away praising this free health care (only after accidents), let me explain.  New Zealand is a small country, most of it remote, wild and with poor access to amenities, add to that earthquakes and tsunamis, erupting volcanoes and landslides. In such a setting, regardless of life skills and community support, accidents do happen and the country would go bankrupt if every person who fell down a path or was knocked down by a falling tree in a nature reserve or got hit by falling rocks on a public road starts to sue the state for damages due to poor maintenance and lack of care. Instead, the country decided to provide free health care and rehabilitation after accidents. Cheaper in the long run. 

I feel very old. Really old. The last two days, I tried to take the photograph required for my visa renewal and no matter how I turn and what light or angle I chose, the result is of a scared looking old hag with scrawny long hair and I delete it immediately. One of these days, I'll have to face it.

The grandchild meanwhile thinks this is the best of times and joins me for long reading and singing and talking sessions, preferably before bedtime and before school. I treasure this time. 

But while physical recovery is a given, I now have enough metal in my ankle to keep it together, mobility will most likely never be again what I had taken for granted. I am working on getting my mind ready for this, preparing for the inevitable dark hole I will eventually fall into for some time and the (I hope) recovery of my mind and soul as I prepare myself to take on yet another of these fucking life challenges.

Your youth evaporates in your early 40s when you look in the mirror. And then it becomes a full-time job pretending you’re not going to die, and then you accept that you’ll die. Then in your 50s everything is very thin. And then suddenly you’ve got this huge new territory inside you, which is the past, which wasn’t there before. A new source of strength. Then that may not be so gratifying to you as the 60s begin, but then I find that in your 60s, everything begins to look sort of slightly magical again. And it’s imbued with a kind of leave-taking resonance, that it’s not going to be around very long, this world, so it begins to look poignant and fascinating.

Martin Amis 

It’s a Steal

Seema Jilani

March 19, 2026

attention investors / fixer upper oasis on the Med / erected
_________on remnants of sacred souls / complimentary essential
oils / purge the stench of rotting flesh / chef’s kitchen / maqlouba
_________still warm / backgammon mid-game

savor morning kahva / private balcony / overlooking
_________corpses / alarm clock / ocean of weeping mothers /
vintage carnage / plantation shutters / no sage tea burnt /
_________secret passageways / clandestine graves / tick tock

cat cafés / no kittens / fill the hot tub with leftover blood / still
_________warm, frothy / a shattered tibia / found in the
childrens’ playroom / bury the skulls deeper / floor boards
_________don’t lie / DIY skeleton hospitals / schools included

paint the baby room cyan / we have enough red / save the dolls /
_________pink booties too / plant the all are welcome sign / slim
rainbow font / local orphans / available for landscaping / will work
_________for wheelchairs / countertops with genuine human bone inlay

private olive grove / roots endure / relentless / undaunted / inexorable / extermination ongoing

listing price_________30k children_________digital keys only_________non-negotiable

and then this happened

The beautiful, messy, buzzing and welcoming city of Wellington is covered in many walkways, some are easy to do, an hour or two, always with a lookout along the way, others are longer, with much climbing and stepping up and down through housing areas and deep bush, all with birdsong and amazing vistas along the way.

Yesterday, I almost completed the Southern Walkway. As I was slowly making my way down the last meters of a steep path in dense woods, the wide open southern beaches beckoning at every bend, I slipped and fell and broke my right ankle. That day I had spent three blissful hours hardly meeting a soul, just many many birds. And now I was on the ground trying to take in the odd way my right foot was hanging sideways when I heard voices. They came from a playground downhill across a large meadow at the foot of the path. And when I called out, the first person running towards me happened to be an emergency doctor on maternity break, toddler twins in tow, followed by a firefighter who had taken the day off and his partner, who both had just moved into their home across from the play area. Within the next hour or less, I was carried across the field to a bench, where I passed out briefly, was given two paracetamol and much back rubbing and comfort while the firefighter managed to bundle me in his car, drive me to the A&E where my daughter was waiting with a wheelchair. 

The triage nurse saw me 15 minutes later, followed by an X-ray to confirm bimalleolar ankle fracture and after my foot was cleaned (some nasty looking cuts punctuated the heavy swelling), I was given iv antibiotics, a cup of tea and more iv painkillers plus propofol, which meant that I was in dullaly land while the bones of my foot were straightened and plastered in place. When I was back in the real world, the orthopedic surgeon handed me a bowl of lemon icecream, more tea and detailed the coming scenario, a couple of days for the swelling to go down before surgery, hopefully Monday and then several weeks of recovery. All medical staff, from receptionist to surgeon were female and we were on first name terms as is the custom. My wonderful daughter who stayed with me throughout was given a bowl of passionfruit icecream. I only found out later, so missed my chance to taste it.

By 10 pm I was on a bum crawl up the many stairs to my daughter's beautiful house. Where I am now resting with the leg elevated, crawling on all fours to the toilet if need be and otherwise being looked after in splendid luxury. Alfie, the dog, slept by my side all night. I spend my hours dozing off the propofol (vaguely thinking of Micheal Jackson), watching training videos on walking with crutches - I am looking at six weeks of cast and no weight bearing - and marveling at New Zealand's accident compensation scheme which states in the official paperwork: It doesn't matter who you are, where you're from or what you were doing when you were injured, you are covered.

The grandchild is slightly overwhelmed but looking forward to painting on the cast and promised to read me stories. The rest of the family is serving snacks and excellent coffee, sorting out visa extensions and travel cancellationns/changes, while I pray to the gods of the expensive comprehensive flight insurance I bought last year.

It hurts like hell, I could complain a lot about living like a stranded beetle but I leave that for - maybe - later.

 

 Just last week I read this here somewhere and I can confirm that nothing is boring right now.

People have different comfort zones. You can think of it like an onion: inside, in the core zone, you feel comfortable, life is running smoothly, but it's also a bit boring. Around it is the zone of learning and challenge, where you feel challenged but not overwhelmed. And on the very outside is the panic zone.

 

Alfie

 

I think it's a sea horse

bath time

 

along the way

 

about 30 minutes before I slipped and fell

 

brief reminder along the way

t
 

war in Europe

Four years equals 48 months equals 208 weeks equals 1460 days equals 35040 hours equals 2012400 minutes equals 126144000 seconds.

Ukrainians have changed the way they wage war; they no longer ask when it will end, but only how. Ukrainians are saving us all, and unlike us, they don’t even ask us to say thank you.

Anne Applebaum interviewed in Il Foglio (link in Italian)

briefly

For the past month and the next and the next, I am in a far away place, doing the school run, laundry, gardening, cooking, shopping and lots more in a household where one person goes to school, nature school, gymnastics, swimming club, music and art clubs as well as bath, hairs, teeth etc maintenance not forgetting reading and drawing and playing, another person is about to publish a book with all the deadlines and let's not disturb stuff going on, a third person is organising and chairing a major science conference while on day three after my arrival she sufferef a freak accident resulting in substantial injury to her right hand which means I do a lot of wound care, typing and accompanying her to various medical appointments trying to ease her load because conference is imminent and important to her - and there is the dog and a cat and much more, so no, I don't really read or comment or look for comments on a regular basis. Bear with me if you can. If you can't,  sorry.

Women have very little idea of how much men hate them (Germaine Greer)

The absurdity of being asked to justify the need for feminism in a world where men in positions of extraordinary power were humiliating themselves for access to a convicted pedophile sex trafficker is almost hard to process. 

In that context, the question isn’t whether feminism went too far. It’s how anyone can still pretend it went far enough. It’s difficult to take critiques of feminism seriously in a world where male solidarity routinely outranks basic moral judgment. 

Liz Plank

 

One of the foundational acts of the Roman empire was the construction of the Cloaca Maxima, the great sewer that carried off the city’s effluent and made its glories possible. The Romans thought of it as sacred and gave it its own presiding deity, Cloacina.

The Epstein archive is the Cloaca Maxima of the contemporary American empire, a vast sewage system that underlies and enables the triumph of gilded misogyny. Epstein is its sacred monster, the presiding deity of the cult of rapacity to whom men of privilege sent up their supplications: let us prey.

The Epstein files (and we should remember that millions of documents are still being withheld, presumably to protect the guilty) are the underground waste disposal system of a very open and massive construct: the backlash against feminism. These are secret histories of a counter-revolution. Epstein and all those within his astonishingly expansive sphere of influence – bankers, speculators, political players, but also scientists, intellectuals and artists – are culture warriors. The war is being waged on women. What we see in the files is a coherent and concerted reaction by elite men against one of the great revolutions of history: the feminist revolt of the 1960s and 1970s.

Fintan O'Toole

 

It’s not all men. It’s not all billionaires. It’s not all power brokers. But it’s a lot of the ones that have been dictating a lot of the terms about the place. It’s not even that it’s a lot of men, it’s the fact that the slippery networking, covering-up, the leveraging and assumed exclusivity of what was a men’s club cult seems so normal, so familiar, so assumed for them all. Like it’s what they do all day, in their outside lives.

Sarah Wilson
 

Kia ora koutou

 

Here I am, where birds the size of a child's fist make the loudest call, where butterflies the size of my hand surround me on my morning walk, where you greet the bus driver when you enter and say thank you and goodbye when you step off, where the sun is hot and dangerous and the sea is freezing, where the coffee is black and stronger than anywhere I can remember, where the wind can be relentless and overpowering, where the city is really a maze of walkways and trails and where every walk involves steep slopes, thick bush, amazing vistas and seemingly endless stairs and every encounter is on first name basis.

 

courage

The Greek philosopher Aristotle, who was a student of Plato, another Greek philosopher who himself had been a student of Socrates, who is often refered to as the first moral philosopher, talked about a concept called hexis. I was first introduced to this when I was, maybe, 15 years old as it was part of the school curriculum to read ancient Greek texts - something I disliked greatly and therefore failed most of the time - add to that that the teacher was a veteran of WWII who, while he never spoke about it and nobody did anyway at the time, was highly suspect to us resulting in various boycotts and other so-called rebellious acts. Anyway, hexis indeed stood out and made me wake up in class as it is actually a reassuring concept if you feel you are stuck and unable to get on with life, something I had experienced as a teenager repeatedly - but who hasn't.

Hexis is more than a habit, more than a skill. Hexis is something we, if we put our mind to it, can cultivate as a state of being. We get there if we stick to an action or an concept, a plan, again and again, not merely as repetition but despite internal resistance until this resistance becomes less and less and the wish to do whatever it is you set your mind to becomes more compelling and eventually a skill set and a part of who you are. Or in the words of Jiminy Cricket to Pinocchio, if at first you don't succeed, try and try again.

The above-mentioned Aristotle said that we can become courageous by doing courageous things.  And to develop courage, we all start without it, we may be terrified, we may be doubtful, but if we just behave like someone with courage then we will eventually become a courageous person. Add to that Jiminy Cricket's wise words, always let your conscience be your guide.

(Fun fact aside: Socrates never wrote a single sentence, no texts, books nor pamphlets. What is refered to as Socratic thinking is what his student Plato wrote down in the shape of his dialogues. Having to read and struggle to translate these dialogues made my teenage life quite miserable.)

 

Anti-fascism is the concept and antifa is the courageous stance. It evolved in Germany in the 1920s as a direct response to the fascist threat and it is self-evident in any democracy. Without anti-fascism, there can be no democracy. If you want to live in a free society, a constitutional state and a democracy, you must be an anti-fascist. Fascism is not simply an opinion within the democratic spectrum of opinions.

Fascism is the opposite of humanity, brutalising and dehumanising not only its victims, but also its followers. That is why it must be opposed and all areas of our society must be protected from it.  You can't allow a little bit of fascism and watch what happens. Fascism is like lead in drinking water, even a little bit destroys everything.

 

The next revolution – World War III – will be waged inside your head. It will be a guerrilla information war fought not in the sky or on the streets, not in the forests or even around scarce resources of the earth, but in newspapers and magazines, on the radio, on TV and in ‘cyberspace’. It will be a dirty, no-holds-barred propaganda war of competing world-views and alternative visions of the future.

    Marshall McLuhan (Culture is Our Business, 1970) 

We have long memories. We remember what it means to be human, beyond our economic function as a consumer or voter. We have the wild world as our ally and our ancestors stand behind us. 

Charlotte du Cann 

 

And now for the final bits of packing, I am once again looking forward to experience the amazing wall-to-wall carpeting of Changi Airport.

I'll be gone for a while. 

. . . if at some point your eyes look at a video of someone getting murdered in broad daylight and your mind’s first instinct is to say but what if or but what about, I would urge you to stop, because I want you to be a person who understands that you are the only person who loves the way you do, which means that every person you see, whether in a video or in the broad daylight just outside the reach of your outstretched hand, is the only person who loves the way they do, and, honestly, if you refuse to see that, and if you choose instead to attempt to justify rather than mourn the death of someone whose love is a shiny, remarkable gem polished under the light of the same sun where you and I both stand, you are just like the millions of others who have abandoned the radical and wildly special individuality of their love to instead become people who hate other people in exactly the same way.

 

Devin Kelly (please read all of it here) 

concentrate on our ethical muscles

 

Dangerous pavements.
But  this year I face the ice
With my father’s stick.

Seamus Heaney 

 

There is snow, quite a lot of it, something that doesn't happen often here in this big fat river valley. It will all be gone by tomorrow but not before a night of heavy frost and ice. Looking outside, I can only see white and grey and black. 

Yesterday, I had the last of a string of medical exams and imaging tests and have been given the all clear for the long haul flight. Tomorrow I will start packing, summer clothes and bicycle helmet and the high SPF sunscreen lotion. Yesterday, I also deleted my instagram account, my social media activities are now reduced to reading a small number of writers on substack, a couple of blogs and mastodon, where I keep in touch with a group of scientists and climate activists. How weird it now seems, that initial excitement about social media and finding old friends from another lifetime and what has become of it, this strange addiction to scrolling and schadenfreude.

I want to continue exposing myself to the real world, and I know that - like the people whose homes are threatened by rising sea levels - I cannot do this without accurate information and that this involves a struggle with a great deal of dullness and nastiness in today's media world. 

It is so important to avoid seeking comfort in resentment, but instead have confidence in what people can achieve as long as they preserve their humanity as a core value. 

Because ultimately we have no choice but to love our world. We can follow our cynicism and our despair until the cows come home. But in the long run, that will neither change anything nor make us feel better. Seriously, there is no alternative to lovingly helping to shape the world. Otherwise, people who do not love the world will take over.

So, as a always, this means to pool my resources and energy with others to help rescue people from their agony of resignation, from their apathy born of despair - something I myself have known and continue to experience. But instead and without moralising, concentrate on our ethical muscles and our sense of community.

And remember, progressive movements have never been unified movements. We don't need to wait until everybody agrees or is convinced. Debating and arguing is part of the process.

To paraphrase Erich Fromm, without the practice of love of life, societies simply cannot survive.

 

I do wish there was less harshness to endure, less hardness for my soft body to push against, but what they all have in common in their endurance and adaptation is that they remain soft. I, too, plan to remain human, wide open to the heartbreak and despair of the harm being done . . . Let me not harden myself against all this hurt. Let me be owl down, seal fur, nudibranch flesh. Let me bend, give, flex. I plan to endure, and to turn towards cooperative efforts to right the overwhelming amount of wrong in the world.

 

Mary Beth Rew Hicks 

Uncertainty and confidence can exist at the same time.

If I write that I do feel a tiny bit better, I may jinx it and although superstition is not part of my life skills, I remain cautious. At least I was able to change the flight dates without any problems or extra costs. 

 

(At school, this was an often used response to a teacher complaining about not paying attention. It's by Heraclitus, one of the eminent pre-Socratic philosophers, hence extremely valid.)

 

 

As usual, distraction is the name of the game and for me that includes reading and listening to whatever comes my way, often suggested or linked by family members and friends, for laughs, stimulation, discussion and delight. Here is what has kept me entertained in the last week, I am writing most of it as I remember reading it, forgot to take down sources.

First, the obvious:

• Autoimmune disease is treated by immune suppressing drugs which in turn often can result in the body getting infected by all sorts of viruses and bacteria healthy people can fight against. Instead of getting dispirited every time that happens, maybe look at these as a side effect of your immune system trying to protect you. The immune system gets to know us even before our parents do, and until the moment we die, it does everything it can to heal and protect us. 

Next, who'd have thought. 

• The neocortex - the part of the brain that plays a significant role in intelligence - is particularly large in monkeys that live together in large groups. Dolphins address each other by name, obviously in dolphin language and using dolphin names. Goats can recognise and teach each other symbols and bonobos master a previously unimagined form of syntax. And then there's that standard test used by science to detect complex thinking in animal species, namely the ability to recognise yourself in a mirror - or in other words, the ability to distinguish between the self and others. And squirrels and crows hide their food while no one is watching and then make a big show of digging a big hole for their stash while every creature looks on. The proper term for this behaviour is perspective-taking. At least I think it is.

Also:

• There is a reason fascists ban books and not guns. Guns are a tool for one thing, books are tools for everything. 

And a recent headline from the Guardian:

• World’s longest-married couple reveals key to a lasting relationship: ‘We love each other’. 

 

Finally, kids are clever. 

 

 

 

 

perspective taking

It's cold outside.

The last couple of weeks:

After the fairly mediocre head cold and the course of antibiotics and the subsequent restoration of gut health, something else hit me that required a ten day crash course of oral cortisone with the full array of side effects regarding sleep and mood and digestion - again - and still not much better, although, in the words of the doctor, at least not worse. Some of it is very familiar, which means I am hopeful that with all the fucking rest I am taking my body will miraculously realign itself into a shape of recognisable physical fitness. And I am not talking marathon running fitness here, just making it up the stairs at a brisk pace. 

It's a shitty symptom, this lack of energy.  You simply cannot get anything done, no matter how trivial and believe me, I do try. But the man watches me like a hawk and has raised his voice in alarm more than once. Bless him.

Anyway, in ordinary times, I would lean back, listen to some decent audiobooks, read some decent novels, watch some decent movies and let myself be expertly looked after and otherwise entertained by the man in my life. I am retired, I can take my time. Been there, done it before etc.

Only, I am booked to fly halfway across the planet in a few days. Obviously, not possible, also because I am scheduled for a minor invasive cardiac exam in ten days. Every morning I log into the Singapore Airlines app ready to press the buttons for "change flight dates" and then I stop myself. One of these days I'll have to. We are insured to the hilt, it's not about money, it's just about self confidence and limitations and regret and the weeks of preparing and expectations. And the fact that I am holding on like mad to the hope that I'll be able to travel and be healthy enough to be a real granny for a couple of months, eating ice cream while looking across the South Pacific.

In other news, we are celebrating xmas in the ususal fashion, ie not at all. I can recommend it wholeheartedly. However, there is an expensive Veronese pandoro - not pannetone - waiting in the kitchen.  We also watched the live stream of the winter solstice sunlight beam snaking its way into the chamber of the megalithic tomb in Newgrange, Co. Meath, Ireland, and the dedication of the people artists who imagined and built this structure a good five thousand years ago put a sense of perspective back into my muddled brain. It also means that soon there will be a good stretch in the evenings, as the saying goes.

 

 

 

reminder

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) was adopted on this day in 1948  in response to the “barbarous acts which […] outraged the conscience of mankind” during the Second World War.

end of November

Last week's offerings:

Limited sunshine, one gorgeous sunrise and the entire remaining quota of grey clouds left for November. (Temperatures are climbing now amid rumours and actual meteorological forecasts of an unusually mild "summer" December. We shall see.) While around me people declare to be seriously suffering from seasonal affective disorder, my version is more of an allergic reaction when facing the various xmas offerings in the shops complete with seasonal music.

Otherwise I am working on reestablishing my gut health after ten days of antibiotics. This is what the gods invented Greek yoghurt for.  

The grandchild continues to read to us, we are working our way through the Dog Man opus, which I cannot praise high enough for style, narrative structure, language and plot climax. I am serious. In today's chapter, Dog Man told us that it's usually darkest before dawn and also that sometimes stuff happens totally random. 

We also went for a long walk and when my hands and feet were more or less frozen solid checked into a nice hotel by the river where ducks and herons and swans woke us the next morning at sunrise.

Reading, listening and watching.

• Reading:  

The Mighty Red by Louise Erdrich. As always, this writer does not disappoint and I stayed up late into several early mornings reading it. And as always, when I have read the last page of any Erdrich novel, I need to sit quietly for a while, sorting through my head and heart and the first thought that always comes to mind is, thank you.  

The Writers' Castle by Uwe Neumahr. All about the famous writers and journalists who came to Germany to observe and report on the Nuremberg Trial against the captured leaders of nazi Germany. I read this for three reasons, no 1, it was 80 years ago when the Nuremberg Trial started and there are heaps of documentaries and reports in all of the media currently, no 2, I spent a large part of my childhood and teenage years in Nuremberg and no 3, the castle in question, where the press camp was set up, sits across the road from the home where my grandmother lived for the last ten years of her long life and where she went for her daily walk in the castle park until one morning, aged 103, she decided she had had enough of it all, stayed in bed and died. 

• Listening:

As I have grown a bit tired of the Blindboy Podcast (but still think the episode "A Psychosexual history of Digestive biscuits and their use as instruments of Physical Force Republicanism", episode 342, season 1, is one of the best episodes ever in the whole podcast world) and cannot really stomach any more true-crime-that-never-really-gets-solved podcasts, I happily switched to Ill advised, the wonderful podcast of the wonderful British actor Bill Nighy. As a longtime fan of Bill Nighy (and long before Love Actually) I am obviously biased but really, there is nothing to complain here, true to his words, it's "for people who don't get out much and can't handle it when they do" and it comes complete with his well curated weekly playlist and book recommendation at the end of each episode. 

• Watching:

We worked our way through two series based in Northern Ireland, both excellent in our opinion, one for content, historical accuracy and acting and so on, Trespasses, which is based on the excellent novel of the same name by Louise Kennedy. The other, Blue Lights, in more than one way completely unrealistic and incorrect, but great stories and acting and entertaining (but not funny).

As was to be expected, we now have completely unintentionally started to take on the Ulster accent.

 

 

And finally, in his soft Limerick accent, the outgoing and all over the island much admired and loved Irish president Michael D. Higgins said yesterday: 

I see that President Trump refers to the ‘Third World.’ I think he had better realise that the people he’s talking about are the future world and they will believe in universalism in a way that he strongly opposes, and they will make new international institutions that he has destroyed with a respect for international law that he does not have.
The sooner the majority of the world is represented in the decisions that affect all future generations, the safer our planet will be. 

Sunday's child

Today is our daughter's birthday. As always, the events of that day - and the 48 hrs before her birth - are on my mind. And not just today but that's to be expected. 

During the day, we have a little competition of who remembers the most outrageous, funny, sad, and so on, thing about her and our parenting show. It is a cold and grey day, we are both retired, so we are at home, busy in our separate spaces with the doors open as we call out memories to each other in a way that would make our teenage daughter cringe and our grown up daughter and now herself a mother  probably teary eyed. How silly are parents etc., but she is far too busy. As were we at her age.

Three memories.

When she was ten years old, she changed schools and we trained her to come home by herself. This involved her walking half a kilometer from the school to the nearest bus stop, on the way crossing a busy road via a pedestrian light crossing, waiting at the stop where three different bus routes merged and getting off the correct bus after 15 minutes, crossing another road via a zebra crossing, walking through a pedestrian railway underpass and along a quietish street home for maybe one kilometer. All of this during the day, in a busy town, with many other school kids. For about a week, I was waiting behind a tree close to the bus stop near her school, watching how she carefully crossed the road, take her seat behind the bus driver while I sat at the back, unnoticed, and with a serious determined face and stride getting off at the correct stop walking home when, suprise, surprise, I would happen to come along. 

Years later when she set off into the wild night life, we once or thrice, sat in the car parked illegally behind some advertising billboard by the central bus station and watched her in the crowd of happy teenagers waiting for the nightbus after midnight, driving home once she was safely on the bus and seemingly asleep by the time we could hear her key in the front door.

Fast forward a couple more years, with me sitting at my desk at work, reading her email. She wrote that she had just travelled through the night on a bus in Laos, sitting next to a monk, which meant she had to leave her feet firmly on the floor and sitting up straight but how this inconvenience offered a sense of security as apart from the monk, most passengers were armed soldiers. She was writing this email at sunrise on the banks of the Mekong waiting for the morning ferry to Thailand where a group of taxi drivers had invited her for coffee. She was, she wrote that day, extremely happy.

She has been surrounded by invisible guardian angels, helped by common sense and a sharp mind. Always certain that humanity is our family. Long may it last.  

 

 

half way through November

 

A reliable sorce informed me a while ago that the various AI apps can  - depending on variables such as age, habits, career, family and whatever else they have on you - calculate how many more movies and series you will watch, how many more books you will read, and how many new people you will meet before you die. And here I was thinking AI was mindless shit.

In a convoluted way it does bring to mind the much adored (by me) German performance artist/theatre director/filmmaker Christoph Schlingensief who said shortly before his death from cancer in 2010 that he would give anything to lie awake at night and just ponder whether he had taken out the rubbish or not.  

This post is not meant to be all gloomy but it is November after all and today we had the whole programme from stormy winds to sleet and hail and snow and back to briefly sunshine and now frost. And drizzle. Drizzling frost freezing on the roads. The house makes a clicking noise only I can hear.

Last Friday I finally accepted that the headcold symptoms were getting a tad too intesive and that after two weeks there should really be some improvement and not shivers and fever and later that morning, my friendly GP gave me a stern look and a short lecture about immune suppression and risks and ladila and a prescription for antibiotics with rest. To top it, R has set up a regimen of inhalations and keeps putting very large glasses of water within reach and I have watched a couple of Scandinavian thriller series and obviously, read all the internets.

Here is what I found:

• For decades, scientists have been collecting brittle stars, or Ophiuroidea, a relative of the starfish, and storing them in museums and universities. Now, DNA analysis from thousands of these ancient, prickly crawlers shows that family ties extend across oceans, plural. All that deep water is much more interconected than previously thought possible. In fact brittle stars from the South Pacific near New Zealand, for example, are related to those found as far away as the Indian Ocean and the North Atlantic. For marine invetebrates, tiny creatures living on the sea floor, the oceans are a connected superhighway.

• While I watched the inauguration of the wonderful new president of Ireland, Catherine Connolly, and listened to her gentle voice speaking as gaeilge (in Irish) not understanding a word, I, for the hundredth time, decided to finally once again have a go at learning this amazing language (I am the only person in the family unable to utter even a few words of it). Obviously, I was running a temperatur and no, it's not going to happen, who am I kidding. Just consider the word for hole: one dug into the ground after dark by an animal is uachas. Or one made by fish in a sandy riverbed for spawning is saothar. One hollowed out by the hooves of beasts and then filled with rain is plobán. And one where a lobster is hiding in is fach and a hideaway by a wild beast is puathais. The Irish word for president is uachtarán and it translates as the the cream that rises to the top and thus the presidential palace in Dublin is called Áras an Uachtaráin or house of the president or to some, the country's creamery.

And then I found this: 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the power of novelists

As mentioned a few times here, English is not my first language and since I had been told during my school years that I had no talent for modern languages, I did not waste much time trying to speak or read let alone understand English.

As also mentioned several times here, this all changed dramatically in the summer of 1979 when, at age 21 on the wild Atlantic coast of Connemara, I met R who has been the man in my life ever since. And while he speaks a couple of modern languages, German was not part of his repertoire. And since I can be determined when I want to, my talent for one of the modern languages improved rapidly and the rest is history. (He also speaks German by now.)

I may have also mentioned that I am an avid reader and incorporating English into my life opened the door to a whole new world of literature. At first reading in English was like driving without headlights, I just guessed my way through the narrative, but it did not stop me.

The first novel in English was The Magus by John Fowles. It was quite the rage at the time and had made a huge impression on R and when I asked him to tell me what to read, he got me a copy. To say that I struggled with it would be an understatement but I got the general drift and did read it to the end. I tried reading it again a few years back but just could not get into it.

The second novel in English was The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing. There are many ways to read this massive and amazing book and I have read it three times by now.

The third novel in English was Them by Joyce Carol Oates which blew me away with its sharp honesty, describing a world I could only try to imagine - being 21 and living in the safe cocoon of love and affection and happiness. 

I've read a good few of Joyce Carol Oates's books since, did not like all of them but whenever I find one of her titles in a shop or library, I pick it up and have a look. Which is why this little missive by her is such a refreshing, uplifting and to-the-point thing to read:

Other than that I am grumpy and mean spirited since I picked up R's head cold a week ago and while he recovered within a couple of days and is now frolicking like a young deer, I am nursing the worst symptoms in the history of head colds. 
 

my life in ten objects: union card

I don't have an actual union card any longer. The last one looked like a credit card and I had it tucked away somewhere with my work papers. It's all online now but I left the last union I was in when I retired.

The first union I joined was the German Education Union, which organises educators and teachers in schools, universities, early childhood education, vocational training and adult education. 

I joined because my father had urged me to do so. Also, a cousin and various other family members and I had grown tired of the discussions as to why not and so on.  

It was the time when I was a student and trainee teacher and I remember lots of action but mostly fun. And learning workshops on all sorts of stuff. The union financed the interrail tickets that enabled me to travel all over Europe during the summer, visiting festivals and doing voluntary work in many different settings (mixing cement for school renovations, chaperoning youth groups, serving coffee to old age pensioners, cleaning hospital floors, replanting beach grass at the coast, you get the idea). And along the way, I met the man I am still sharing my life with.

When I moved to Ireland and worked in bookshops, I joined IDATU, the Irish Distributive and Administrative Trade Union, which then was the trade union representing workers in Ireland. I wasn't an active member, not someone who went to meetings and such, but when in 1984, several female workers and one man at Dunnes Stores, one of Ireland's large department stores, refused to sell South African grapefruits as part of the growing campaign against the Apartheid regime, my union branch decided to follow and soon enough, there were pickets all over the country where I spent many hours, my small kid asleep in the buggy or playing with others between our signs and banners.  

This guy tells the story quite well and almost like a joke: 

I found out a bit later that my name, together with all other IDATU members, was on a list of people barred from South Africa at the time. When we moved to Germany, I dutifully joined the next best union and paid my membership fees and helped distributing newsletters from time to time, collected signatures on petitions and funds for people in need. I had nothing to worry about but I had my rep's contact details and the knowledge that any time any place I had the legal protection of my rights at work - as well as being part of a collective muscle for lack of a better word. 

A while back, during one of my father's family dinners, the above-mentioned cousin was explaining to another guest why he, now a well off retired academic, had always been a union member. It's because I never wanted to lose my sense of solidarity, always wanted to remind myself what social responsibility means and why it matters. But also, because I can.