The fourth month - the illusionist 

Escapist scenarios

This morning I woke up late, at 7am, not very Protestant. But I was fine, although I had already wasted some of my most precious time of the day. When Sinead came into the kitchen, she quoted something to herself, as a lyric, but I heard the tune immediately and started singing: "I can see clearly now, the rain is gone". That it was Jimmy Cliff who had sung the song first didn't really occur to me. I was simply happy and played the song on my mobile phone. And I knew it fit perfectly: I "see the obstacles on my way", "the rain is gone".

Don't worry, I will miss the rain and the fog soon, because there is no better moment than when the fog is dispersed by a strong sun, or the clouds are giving way to a clear blue sky. It seems worth the suffering.

It looks as if the theme of the month will be "Illusion, Self-Deception, and the "Danger of Underestimating the Forces of Reality". My theme. I love to lay tarot cards; since I met Georgie, the small, gentle and very concentrated Canadian "hippie" woman in California in 1983, who guided me through wild states of mind by simply laying cards in front of me. Later, in this unique little wooden house that her husband Lance had built in the forests of British Columbia, somehow crooked and beautiful. A timberman he was, tall, strong and gentle too. It was wonderful.

I know that not many people appreciate such "useless or even dangerous fortune-telling". And as a well-trained or - better said - well-conditioned "Westerner", who is familiar with scientific thinking and imbued with the insights of the "Enlightenment", I understand the objections, the fears and perhaps justified doubts. Nevertheless I love to lay the Tarot, it is as if it would be a prayer, the game of cards, a deep reflection or meditation on a question or a situation, without concrete predictions of a future, but simply pointing out aspects I would never consider otherwise - in conversation with friends, therapists or a counsellor :-), But of course this could well be a risky replacement of following news of “facts" based on widely agreed perspectives of modern “applied” science. In my case it's truly the action of a bewildered person, an adventurer in distress, choosing the narrow ridge between reason and hope, no alternative in sight.

This is why Sinead and I had started to lay an Irish version of the tarot cards called "Celtic Wisdom" to better understand the patterns of our behaviour and emotions in past and present relationships. Interesting. Yes, ridiculous perhaps. "They're just cards", she said somewhat doubtfully, as if she wanted to convince herself, but at the same time a little trembling at the implied rebuke of a card she had laid. You never know.

We had laid a complex deck of cards, "The Co-Walker Spread", with 15 cards on the table. I do not want to bore you with details of this game. But card no. 7 - in position called "Expectations" - was "Adventure of Art" and suggested to take a closer look at "Illusions and Fantasies", "Daydreams. Escapist scenarios. Unrealistic attitudes or expectations. Wishful thinking. Self-deception. Dangerous giving in to whims. Addiction to substances..." and "...unhealthy dependence on fortune-telling." God oh God, in a nutshell! But no shame or surprise on my side. I said that is exactly what it is. There is nothing more to say. Yes, I am delusional, an escapist - I am realistic.

You may or may not believe in such contemplations, and the deck did not directly bring the originally intended clarification of our "situation", our patterns of behaviour, but somehow clearly pointed to Guatemala, although not quite clear whether Guatelinda - as some people call this country - is the "real" place, or a place in my heart. I suppose it is the same one. Usually I try to keep things simple.

Tonight we will continue with card No. 11. "What your partner has given to you".

PS: In the meantime, I am concentrating more and more on cleaning. Not only the kitchen floor. I have just cleaned parts of the roof and all the gutters and drain pipes. Good work, and useful, and also requiring a lot of attention working from the top step of a stepladder (Life is Yoga). I have also started cleaning the windows. The east side is done, I will continue. I do love cleaning. It also helps me to ponder the question raised in Soul Wisdom: “What we envisage or dream can manifest itself if we give it sufficient energy. However, using the Otherworldly powers for recreation or curiosity, without responsibility, can bring us into trouble. What is illusory and what is symbolically true here?"

Jimmy Cliff und "I can see clearly now"

Wednesday, 7 October 2020. Clouds are coming in from the west, hiding the clear blue sky

Waiting seems approprate

"Waiting" is difficult, actually it doesn't exist, even if sometimes the whole life seems to be a waiting room. Like now the Coronavirus waiting room. We wait for better times, but sometimes we are almost disappointed when the normal madness takes over again. No guidelines, no guard rails. Waiting is interesting, between the past and the promise of the future. A state of suspense. Is it in my hands? The doors of the United States are still closed to me. Not a signal that I am welcome, quite the opposite. Possible illusions give way to sobriety and the question of whether I should simply "leave the US alone". This is still difficult, because I do not see any other way yet. I prefer the slow way. There is a lot to process and I know that I am changing on the way to the goal, and the goal is always changing.

Christmas is coming soon, the autumn solstice has been over for days, the nights are getting longer, the days shorter, it's getting cold. The fear of it has given way to equanimity. But even that is not a state of rest. I keep getting signals that I should come (or go) back to Switzerland for Christmas after all, and joy keeps coming back. Singing Christmas carols and Beatles songs together with my family. Wonderful. Sometimes a deep sadness arises in me and I freeze. No, at least so far, a step "back" makes no sense. Whether this is stubbornness, or shame, fear of repeating the same thing, or ignorance of reality, that is put there. It is a richly spiced dish. Yesterday we talked about transformation, and we were both undecided about this term, which is often used so easily. Metamorphosis seems more appropriate, "evolutionary adaptation (of a plant)".

Sometimes I almost have a bad conscience that I am almost happy here. No distraction. Concentrated. I am also tempted to say that we are a dream team. Sinead would contradict me quickly; and I too slow down my slightly manic enthusiasm with "sometimes", "often" or "just for a while". Braking and accelerating happen intuitively, and sometimes they are difficult to distinguish, a braking process sometimes seems to immediately initiate an acceleration. It flows. But please do not exaggerate. Be a realist.

So what does a realist do in this time? Right, "take it easy", go about it, of course. And stay alert. Or should I use the word "mindful"?

PS: the migratory birds gather, like every evening. There are more and more of them. Soon it will be time.

Still 7 October 2020

Shards bring luck

Again last night a nightmare shook me, I dreamt and woke up to the realization that what I had so lightly accepted as fact in this Tarot - only to hide it from me again obviously right away - suddenly struck me with full force. The illusions on which my life is built, and that I have only given my partner "hesitation, irresponsibility, insecure instincts, and blocked inertia". I was devastated. Again, I got up late and went into the kitchen somewhat stricken. Then my defence counsel knocked on the door and said, "Don't worry, we'll be able to prove your innocence!". "Having respect for our Soul's purpose may look like foolishness to others". "What is calling you to seek wisdom now?"

So I was able - thank God - to go about my duties again like I do every morning, with joy, or at least a reassuring sense of duty ("life is duty" :-), and the knowledge that only constant cleaning can bring meaning into chaos. Quite Protestant again.

Yesterday Joya sent me a photo of Ticino, taken from the viewpoint of our former holiday home, which has been sold in the meantime, but strangely enough can still be used by "us" as usual - until further notice. For a long time I had tried - in search of my place in the world - to save this family and community house. I tried to reconcile the various irreconcilable opinions, took responsibility, began to simply renovate it, paint here and there, repair something, take small steps. And without doing much, something blossomed, my nephew joined in, and my brother Arnold was also almost enthusiastic. And I considered whether I should put "my money" into the preservation of this beautiful rundown place, live there and simply leave and travel for a while when others want to claim the house for themselves. I loved the idea. Wild fantasies as always. But the reality was stronger, also because I still didn't want to buy a car, and realised that in the long run I wouldn't be able to manage the 800 metres in altitude, down a steep trail and up again, to buy the essentials in the valley or to visit people. So we sold the house in order to put an end to the eternal back and forth, the horror without end.

We had been advised to cut down the huge and a little sickly beech tree in front of the house, so that a buyer could more easily demolish the house and build a new one. The tree was felled with large chainsaws, men secured by ropes, and a helicopter. It was a sad day, because as a boy I had still been peeing at this ancient tree, fertilizing it as I imagined. We had attached clotheslines to its enormous trunk, complained about the many fallen leaves in autumn, and above all about the eternal pointed beechnut shells that kept poking into the soles of our bare feet. But we could still sit outside for a while, even if a sudden heavy rain came in. And we appreciated its shade in the few hot summer days, the dance of sun and leaves on the floor, at the wall, or on the table. And looking from the parking lot below, the giant beech tree showed every visitor where the "Hexenhäuschen" (witch's cottage) stood. A beautiful name.

In the shadow of this tree there were love games and quarrels. Socialist or utopian dreams; fired by extended families and friends who lived together in harmony for a short while. Hans, who sometimes came by, often unexpectedly, shyly at first, only to then happily gubble up the food offered, without much restraint. Or Mrs. Chelesia, who brought us elderberry syrup or blackberry jam, which she prepared from the fruit of our trees and bushes, because we neglected to do so, just wanted to "take a holiday". It was always a great pleasure, a respect for this restless almost eighty years old woman who never wanted to sit down to enjoy a coup of tee. Except perhaps when our grandmother was still alive.

And a few years ago, on this very tree, on a rainy morning, Sinead and I were admiring two snails in love play, hanging on a slimy thread, slowly embracing and fertilising each other. It was under this tree that my carefully lazy indulgence had found its limit in divine wrath for the first time.

In recent years there was only this tree stump, just outside the door, which stood in the way of something, but like a table often covered with the most diverse finds, with pine cones in the most diverse shapes and sizes, special roots or beautiful stones - or tools that had not yet been removed. Now this table is disappearing, as the picture of Joya shows, it is slowly falling apart, turning into mould and other fungi, being devoured by mosses, and showing its last shine in most brilliant colours.

A jug that went to the well until it broke, and now the last remains are slowly disappearing. Yesterday, while cleaning the gutters and the windows on the east side of this house in Tullow, I picked up the shards of a plant pot that was lying on the ground. On cleaning days everything must be in order! But I left the shards of another pot, because Sinead must have her reasons, and for me a reminder that every jug comes to an end at some point, and the shards remind us of this.

And the potter is happy if he can form a new jug out of the clay.

8. October 2020

Morning humor

This morning the alarm clock of my phone woke me up, and as feared as always much too loud, because I still haven't found a way to change its volume. The whole house is woken up! Luckily Sinead sleeps like in a coma, the sleep of the righteous and the innocent, and Bridget is deaf. I went into the kitchen to make a coffee. Boil water, heat up the milk in the microwave, take my favorite cup out of the dishwasher, and the freeze-dried coffee out of the cupboard. Today I'm dreaming badly, lost in thought, and in the midst of one that upsets me, I promptly drop the coffee container, as if the same dreamer's hand were waving around in reality. All the freeze-dried powder scattered on the floor. Shit! Scattered all over the place, and sticking to my slippers, I look for a ladle to shovel the scattered powder back into the glass. And wonder what the coffee will taste like, mixed with all kinds of stuff from the ground.

Luckily I wiped the floor every day and always took up a part wet. Can practically lick it. I had to smile when I saw myself wandering around the kitchen in desperate distress, thinking that God must have a sense of humor. As if I had nothing to do with whom he was making fun of.

9. October 2020

The Gordian Bath

Vivian commented on my last report "The third month" with a somewhat biting wink that I would like to "remain vainly entangled in the Gordian knot", and I had to laugh. The head of didactics put it in a nutshell. I am currently wallowing a little in the bath of this Gordian knot, recovering from the first part of my journey, and processing a lot. Sometimes I miss a real hot bath very much, which I had enjoyed - often with a bad conscience - in the "Obstgarten" (The farm I lived last in Switzerland). Her remark was also something like a wakeup call that fell on fertile ground. Yesterday - after almost a week - we had finished our Co-Walker Tarot, my last card was "Combat of Skills", pointing out to "Where my relationship is going" (Co-Walker), suggesting wisely to ponder "... what is the core of truth and balance in your current dilemma?" The Celtic story told to explain the card is about the thirst for water, and the challenge that the ugly old hag wants to be kissed to get to the water. The chance of doing this, according to the story, is 1 in 4, 25%. But who cares, statistics is not my thing.

I can only guess what exactly this card means for my situation, many things come to mind. But there is something concrete that comes to the fore: maybe I have to swallow the toad and travel directly to Guatemala. Raising again the question, whether it is time to stop a maybe futile attempt to untangle the Gordian knot, but to cut the knot with a decisive cut. However, I am always anxious when dealing with swords. I am afraid of the consequences, and I often don't hit the exact point. But I know how to make impulsive cuts, and I will probably make the cut anyway. Mistakes are allowed, if not essential.

We originally layed the Tarot cards on Sinead's initiative, with the intention of better understanding our relationship patterns, between woman and man, including our co-walking now in her "monastery". I was embarrassed that the cards then seemed to focus entirely on my situation. I could not avert it. I have always wished for attention, but also have feared it like the devil fears holy water. I then spoke to Sinead about how this situation was affecting her now, whether she received an answer to her question anyway or just because of it. At first she said somewhat unruly, it is about you, and not about me! But a short time later we were able to talk about it in peace and quiet, and to take a slightly wider look at the questions. Thanks Sinead, for your dedication.

In the last few days I've been very concerned that I haven't received any more reactions from my friends whom I had pointed out to my previous "report" in chat groups. Maybe it's speechlessness, the tiredness of having to pay a compliment. The fear to criticize me, or simply the lack of interest. I appreciated it when a friend wrote me that he didn't read my texts, that he wasn't a fan of one-way communication. I fully understand that. So I am thinking of not drawing attention to my texts any more, only in individual cases directly, how I do it from time to time. Even there I sometimes get no answer. But I know that I do the same sometimes. Maybe this is also an answer.

Perhaps it is also the distance, the ship already too far away to wave to each other. We all turn to our daily pleasures and duties. It's time to leave the bath, the water is slowly getting cold. Because of this bath I promptly forgot that today is Greg's birthday. Also my sister Marianne's, as every year. It is time to get up.

Saturday, 10. October 2020

Cloud mountain

I sat in the kitchen, we talked about our walk to the village to shop for forgotten things - over Tullow Hill, past St. Patrick's Cemetery, and along the quiet road, with houses on one side, sometimes alone and sometimes in rows, on the other the vast pastures and the house Sinead had once dreamed of. I was strangely tense, somewhat lost in thought, sharp swords and tangled knots were wordlessly present. Sinead turned off the radio and it was as if familiar guests had suddenly disappeared. An emptiness that soon gave way to a welcome calm. I watched the clouds passing by quickly outside the kitchen window - like in a film - some appeared to be mountains, seemingly without changing their shape, despite strong winds. The one big cloud-mountain reminded me of the Gemsfairenstock, a strange 3000 meter high mountain in the Canton Uri, above the Urnerboden. Almost flat on top, with a view of the nearby Tödi, the pearl of the Central Swiss Alps. This peak is popular among ski tourers, known for its long downhill runs, with a bit of luck without any human tracks in the snow.

View from the Gemsfairenstock to the Tödi

1800 metres of altitude difference through varied terrain, always with an unobstructed view of the low-lying valley, often already in the shadow of the afternoon sun of winter, and of the rocky peaks on the other side. Few trees but often bushes, which interrupt open snowfields and force you to make short turns and from time to time unexpected acrobatics. Again and again it is like flying, orgiastic. I then set off, lured by the promise, ignoring the fact that I don't know the exact conditions since I have enough experience to improvise and get myself out of trouble, and when it happens that I fall, I trust that I can do it without hurting myself. It may sound strange, but I am as well prepared for that as I can be. Flying has its price. Also the price of being able to get a full broadside when I fall. "Typical Kamikaze!" someone might call out, maybe a bit gloating, or some might laugh. It hurts, also the shame because of my lack of caution, lack of control, my impatience, and my childlike zest for action. But also the joy of taking a risk and then being able to fly. Whoever knows it, can hardly do without it.

It also makes me very sad to think of this mountain. Christoph and Regula, with whom I went ski touring for many years, and had the best weeks of shopping food, cooking, tour planning and adventures together, in communities the way I love them. It is probably no exaggeration when I say that I counted the years almost after these weeks. Dotted together, and the love of the mountains the only sure thing in common - and to look after each other. And Peter, this enthousiastic and very self-confident entrepreneur who somehow snowballed into my life and became a friend, with whom I had made this tour last time. And above all Yann, of whom I know very little since he has retired somehow from life. I searched for him for a long time, but he stayed "disappeared", somehow always waved away. In the silence, looking for a way out, a way back, to peace? It hurts even if you are very familiar with those imagined states of mind.

I remember as if it were yesterday, when he freed me from the clinic. I was gagged in a clinic with neuroleptics that had "proved" their worth as a sedative, was dawning away silently and trembling with my limbs. And he came and said, let's go, go skiing. You have to get out of here. I was so-called on own will in the clinic, although I had been admitted at another request. I laughed with a somewhat tortured grin, was he serious, given my condition, amazed and at the same time delighted at the madness of his idea, at this unexpected hope. He had no doubts, and we did it. It became a journey into another reality, full of energy, grown out of despair, caring out of supposed egocentricity. The whole week I was like in a frenzy of happiness, although I did not sleep a minute and was often tired and speechless, often cried exhausted. A burst of energy carried me over the mountains and Yann's help when - me being slower - in the evening, after a long ascent, he came towards me from the hut, took my heavy rucksack from my back and hugged me, saving me from falling over. I did not know whether I would survive. It did not care. I was tired, sad and happy.

Soon I was back at the clinic after those exciting days, but I never regretted that wildly unreasonable trip. I am eternally grateful to him. We also did this Gemsfairen-Tour together once, as almost always in beautiful weather. Sometimes wind or cold spots at short steep northern slopes, through which you have to climb. The last time I soon had quite some trouble after an initial push, I felt my lungs, the height, the heaviness in my legs, and also the tiredness to climb mountains again and again. But again I still had the strength for this one more time. And again it had been worth it. A dream descent, a miraculous day, which as so often, very tired in the evening, ended in silent mourning.

I know I will remain faithful to the mountains, also to being alone, to the decisions. The mountains are part of me. So now it is my turn to climb the mountain that has appeared on the horizon again and again for a very long time, not knowing if it will be the last. Now I am old and wise enough to relieve myself of burden, I no longer have the strength as before to carry extra loads to train to overcome my weaknesses, or to carry the burden of a weaker person, or simply to prove myself.

October 2020, written in the Gordian bathtub, in Tullow, Ireland

Maya - a voice from the past

This morning I got up before 6 o'clock. God's humor was not on the agenda this time. Everything went quietly, I drank my coffee, smoked my cigarette while my computer started up. When I started writing, I suddenly saw that a comment had been made on my website. Spam, Russian cryptic with link? No, it was a voice from the past. She had thought of me for some reason, and searched me in Google and found my blog. I unlocked her comment immediately. She wrote "Are you the Jürg who gave my daughter a wooden elephant as a present 30 years ago" and "...not knowing if this is you(,) got stuck in your old texts(,) up to the sentence of the dying kitten and the conflicts with the 2 others who were already there".

Maya - like the Mayas, like illusion - a voice from the past. The contact was "lost" because I couldn't deal with it, with all the emotions, with the conflicts of that time. We had a special relationship, we were both wild and unruly in our own way. I will always remember us lacing each other's shoelaces whenever the other's were loose. Each serving the other, each like mom or dad tying their child's shoelaces. I wrote to her immediately, and just now her quick reply came back. She wrote at the end "we could keep the shoelaces, but less to serve, more to the pleasure of the other".

Sounds good to me.

Sunday, 11 October 2020

The Source

An old friend and companion sent me two pictures. Cryptic, only details, the motive not to be recognized exactly, and in addition a short text - for me also not easy to understand. His message frightened me, mainly because I was afraid to had lost sight of him, left him behind. That I would no longer understand him, with whom we always got along so well, now either. That he has been lost - or I.

I couldn't answer him right away, I didn't know what to say, I was afraid to write the wrong thing anyway, something you could not undo. In the night I woke up again with horror, fear of changes threatening, of ropes cut, or the question of the hand that cut. The fear that it was my responsibility alone. Death Row came to my mind, and Nick and his longstanding commitment to people, rightly or wrongly convicted, waiting for the death penalty. I understand it a little better again now.

The text spoke about him visiting someone in a psychiatric hospital. His text "SOURCE... where from, where to, what for....?" unsettled me. The picture seemed more like that of an anonymous grave, the name "S" engraved in the stone, and only part of the inscription recognizable, and I assumed the "source" was buried here. Again I was startled. Am I about to dig my own grave? I had already had these thoughts before, now and then. And my mother's saying, "As you make your bed, you must lie..." came back to my mind. It had always hit me somehow, but I never knew how I could bed myself differently.

Another story comes to mind: "Hans im Glück". A friend once told me decades ago that I was a "Hans in luck". That hit me right in the heart. Again and again I have seen that I longingly have been on such a way home. But the question that Sinead posed is hanging heavily in the room: "instead of hugging me warmly, will Mother only complain that I'm returning home after this long journey, with no money in my pocket?" All my wages lost. A good-for-nothing?

Sinead soothed me with one of her favorite songs, Willie Nelson: "Nothing I Can Do About It Now" (written by Beth Nielsen Chapman)

Monday, 12. October 2020

Zanzibar and Timbuktu

What a day, yesterday. Full of anxiety attacks and unexpected relief, great joy. Darkness and light. And for a change, a night's sleep - almost real sleep - eight hours of dreams, without major interruptions, except for brief body realignments and renewed immersion in the bath of the "unconscious". And early awake again to a new day, as I love it.

In the meantime I have written a long letter containing many of my hopes and fears, the same in ever new form. What more can one expect in life? Than to always try to achieve the same thing over and over again, and to forget that it might be the same. Praised be the resistance, the gentle and powerful pressure that allows us to experience what otherwise would not be experienced.

At our morning meeting at the breakfast table, Sinead spoke of Timbuktu, her place of dreams. "Where is Timbuktu again?",  "Isn't it in East Africa?", "No, that's the other, what's it called again?" The name touched my thoughts, but it had disappeared again, had hidden. "Oh yes,Timbuktu is in Mali, more in the west of Africa", where the forces of this world are always clearly visible. An old country, an old city, older than Zurich, or Switzerland. Different.

Then the name came back to me: Zanzibar, that was always a place of dreams, which visited me from time to time, when the name sounded in my ears, or I read something about it. Spices, smells, lively markets. When I was young, I had wanted to become an import-export merchant - perhaps for this reason. I changed my mind again. Regula and Christoph had been there once, had seen Zanzibar, if I remember correctly. We were looking at slides, yes, those small 24x36mm coloured celluloid films, framed by plastic or later cardboard, which were put into a projector, a simple device with a lamp, which drew the picture on the wall. It was an evening that reminded me of how, at communal meetings with family and friends, we used to look at the pictures that my father, in particular, had brought back from holidays or trips. It was wonderful to look at these slides. Sometimes boring too, because you couldn't yet - each one alone and "self-determined" - move to another dream place with a simple click.

I was glad that I had not been there in Zanzibar in person, because somehow I wanted to keep my Zanzibar alive in my imagination, the Zanzibar of my dreams, and not have it destroyed by reality. But this must be done, again and again, I know it, so that a new fantasy can arise, a new mysterious signpost, which we can follow again.

So I see again and again, even if my path ends again at a wall, "private" garden fences, copyright protected thoughts, red lights and fixed ideas - as I carry them within me - that these boundaries sometimes suddenly disappear, and I see the wide plains, the horse galloping freely through the landscape, accompanied by clouds in the sky. The horse that can flail around wildly, biting and then immediately trotting peacefully again, embraced by my thighs. And suddenly stops to eat a few tufts of grass. Or it changes direction at a gallop, because it wants to go home, and I - as so often a little inattentive - fly in the direction I have imagined... And the horse is gone, me on the ground, somehow astonished rubbing my cheek, which has been stroked in a very rough way by the stones on the forrest path.

Yes, I am often surprised by the rules of the game, complaining, but I soon rejoice in taking my own steps again, without having to stay on the horse and without having my thighs spread too far apart. And I know that there is nothing better than riding with a free horse that carries you as long as it is pleased, and throws us off, and makes sure that we too can use our legs, know it and enjoy it. After all, a horse does not only want to be at your service, but also simply be a playmate.

Who knows, maybe one day I will have a horse to my side that I will call Zanzibar, or - more "realistically" - a dog that likes to be called by the sound of Timbuktu. Maybe one of those street dogs that visits me from time to time in the Parque Central of Xela, and puts his head on my lap so I can stroke him. Who knows. Maybe I'll just sit in the living room and watch Netflix, or play cards with friends, spend an evening that has so often seemed pure boredom. Forgotten the boredom, or learned to appreciate it, because even fantasy deserves a good night's sleep, it can wake up again anytime. Maybe I'll just go on holiday like everyone else one day, because I can stand staying put and move in a different way. Maybe I'll just sit on a bench and occasionally stroke a child over the head who wants a quick pep talk, or see familiar things in the old man. And maybe simply annoys me, to remind me that I am still alive.

Sitting on a bench with an old companion without talking much to each other. A little distance. An old couple, some people think they're grumpy, others that they're peaceful and content. Exactly as I had always imagined when I put my love for a woman to a test. Maybe I'll have a glass of wine with an old friend, watch the people, and make fun of God and the world, and ourselves, like the two cranky old men on the galleries of the Sesame Street Theatre, or like the old gnarled men on the postcards we sent each other in black and white.

Again and again I search for such postcards, but they are becoming more and more difficult to find. The world is changing. For better or worse, I don't know, I let myself be surprised. I hope for the better, because it is easier and more beautiful, even though I know and welcome the fact that things always turn out differently, differently than I thought. Or not. I love the familiar, but also the unexpected, which breaks through the wall of the dusty familiar and  shows its beauty at the same time. And I simply say in words that always sound familiar: Thank God.

PS: I am still like a dog that jumps joyfully when a ball is thrown - as far as possible.

I had read the book "Tao: The Watercourse Way" (Alan Watts) decades ago, I don't remember the details. But I always liked the title, the water always has guided me.

"Timbuktu - a Song", I liked the trailer. Complete song "Timbuktu Fasso", (by Fatoumata Diawara & Amine Bouhafa)

Tuesday, 13. October 2020

Snapshot

I waited. Sat on the concrete wall that separates the car park of SuperValu and the River Slaney and its embankment. My legs jittered, I enjoyed the sun on my face, and was once again amazed at the beauty of "dying" leaves, their skeletons bright in the light of the late afternoon sun. Autumnal glitter in the calmly flowing water.

The abyss

"Fear eats soul." (Angst essen Seele auf)

Again, this sentence has gone to my bones. I didn't invent it, but it fits as if it was born of my own thoughts. As if it was the summary of my life - in such moments. Then, when I crash. Yesterday it happened again. I always want to hide, from myself and the others, from Sinead, who at the moment - like yesterday - is most directly affected. And I hope I have - again - caught the  tight curve. It is not easy to hold the wheel and drive at such a time. Fear of every thoughtless movement.

I had got up in a more or less cheerful mood. It is the most beautiful thing, the awakening to the new day. We share this with all beings, even though times may be shifted, our rhythm may be quite different. Even people who work underground seem to feel it, probably also the worms. Changing of guards or baton changes, DNA in any form make up what we call constancy.

Yesterday, when I woke up, my floating "situation" came back into consciousness. I know that this time of focussed reflection is coming to an end, but I still do not know what I will do. It seems likely that I will simply get on a plane that will take me to Guatemala - with a change of planes. But I am afraid. I am always afraid of doing something wrong. It is part of my DNA. It is part of my "borderline" disease.

No, this is not an official diagnosis, more like a multi-purpose container kind of appropriate. Above all, there has not been a diagnosis for a long time. The last attempt was a few years ago, when he said somewhat provocatively: "the diagnosis bipolar was wrong, actually you have AHDS. Maybe you should try Ritalin".

I had to laugh. No thanks. I did it, I "tried" a lot of things. I still don't believe in drugs, in chemical "remedies". In my opinion, cures are mainly very simple things. "Drugs" as emergency brakes, yes, accepted. Thanks! But "remedies"? No. They are like dams, river straighteners. Rapid action, easy, I understand! But unimagined side effects guaranteed. I also don't believe that we all have to be equally quiet and laid-back, but that we simply swing together and sing in a big choir. But of course I also "know" that we can have different opinions and that we can, want or have to "influence" each other. A word that shows both the beauty and the limitations of language. We can stand some ups and downs, can't we? Why not do some spiritual yoga, and strengthen the fine muscles of the soul? Oops, that applies to me, sometimes I fear: above all.

But such depths are almost unbearable. Yes, hell. There is such a thing! No? Then why do people who write so-called editorials, for example, still insist that people are actually evil? It's understandable to see it that way, and it's clear that there's always proof of it; even if it's only Ötzi who lets someone reach such a conclusion - the man who had been preserved in ice for five thousand years, with an arrow in his shoulder! Evil? Are we still in the Middle Ages? Has the world silently become flat again, the earth the centre around which the universe revolves? Man the measure of all things? No wonder, probably the only being who wants to measure because he can measure. It is questionable whether tools, once discovered, can simply be left lying around. And who judges when they really serve, and to whom? Like biting into the apple of the tree of knowledge.

I myself suffer from this good or bad look. It does not seem possible any other way than for people to think so, even if it may be hidden. Our thinking is bipolar. Like a computer. We are obviously not spared this. Unless, perhaps, we are calm and "detached" - more so than I am. But then it cannot be avoided that someone can get very angry because of this calmness, close to the border of indifference. No, of course it's not our fault, where would their personal responsibility lie? Obviously, there must be clear opinions.

Oh God, I really was already a little depressed yesterday morning, blocked, jammed, and therefore immediately astonished when Sinead - of her own accord! out of the blue - wanted to work on "our" key project "clearing the garage". And I, of course, immediately hopeful that I could make my stalled energy fly in physical utility: "Great, yes, I'd be happy to help if you want me to". So we set about cleaning up further, putting in rubbish bags what was clearly rubbish, and sorting what was unclear, or what she wanted to keep. But even small things can be the cause of fundamental differences of opinion; for example, our almost habitual harmony was shattered by an empty paint bucket with a few remnants of dried paint in it.

[petty details, to be skipped]
It was my turn to dispose of it in the waste. But she took it out again. "We have to dispose of it as hazardous waste!" I said, "no, it would end up in the waste in Switzerland itself. But nobody, nobody at all, would scrape the paint out of it and dispose of it separately and carefully." In the land of the waste recycling world champions! Well, where there is a lot of waste, you learn to deal with it, you are reassured by the word recycling. And get on with it. But there is still plenty of room in Ireland, at least for the time being. And "this bucket is guaranteed to end up in the Landfill". I swear to you. It's simply impossible to clean up a big mess like this. Not only do you have to weigh up the options carefully, you also have to take clear decisions, make clear cuts! The mountain doesn't rise to the sky forever, it breaks, it falls. It is purely a question of balance. Inevitable. Otherwise others will simply have to do it.

So once again I was totally blocked, agitation dammed up. It was as if the dried out paint bucket had been born at the same time as the hope of the solution. Checkmate. I knew she was allowed to disagree, and yes, it is legal, and logically demarcating her garage. It's obvious. "It is only my problem, my business!" she said resolutely, gently and razor sharp. A certainly correct demarcation, but one that makes me desperate. But that is my problem, which I am choking on, I alone. It's sick. Clear boundaries are my intimate enemies - probably those of all borderliners. GRRR! Such stubbornness meets easily, attracted like fly and shit. Why do I get upset? Simply desperately painful incomprehension! Everything inside only (where is inside again?). Pure Gordian.

I grit my teeth together, keep on going calmly tense. Mountain road, narrow curves, going too fast. Rocks threatening on the left, the abyss on the right. Only trust. Fear, get the thoughts under control! Watching how madness takes its course. I can't brake, keep calm in the storm, make sensible decisions, it's bubbling. I've got it under control. I am in free fall. Help me steer, why don't you take the wheel yourself?
[petty details, skip end]

In case you have read the petty details, excuse my emotions, and that I try to show you a little what a severe depression feels like, trapped in the circle of the snake biting its own tail! For some people it is simply "a storm in a teacup", for others it is a deep abyss. Should I take medication?

The evening was cosy inspite of the ripple. The dog and the snake. But I was tired, and sent me to bed early, and let restlessly grass grow over wounds.

This morning the spook was almost completely over, the waves smoothed out. Peaceful as always. After a short period of stagnation, Sinead started to chatter lively. It is nice to listen to her. Inspiration. And we heard songs, Sinead read a poem. Kindness. This word sound so rich in english.

From a sensitive woman's heart springs the happiness of mankind,
and from the kindness of her noble spirit comes mankind's affection.

And on:

The kindness of the people is but an
Empty shell containing no gem or
Precious pearl. With two hearts do
People live; a small one of deep
Softness, the other of steel. And
Kindness is too often a shield,
and generosity too often a sword.

Both texts from "The Wisdom of Gibran

Besides the experiment with the dried out paint bucket, the wagging dog accompanied me worriedly. Me, who always jumps after every ball thrown. Of course, my attempt to pin this fitting but uncomfortable dress on someone else had to fail on the same day: in the morning cloudiness I reacted to a picture with clouds without text in my inbox, and wrote out of the blue, something like: "You are like a dog wagging, and immediately running joyfully to grab a thrown ball in flight, and bring it back again; only to start wagging again expectantly to long for the next ball".

Difficult, this impulsive morning send click. Its effect accompanied me quite a while. And thanks for his later forgiveness of my carelessness. Because I would be a scorpion (sign of the zodiac). But I too am constantly trying to learn the brushstroke of "whitewashing", (idealisation?), and to understand the value of this art.

Song: "El Condor Pasa" Simon & Garfunkel, about hammer and nails (text).

Friday, 16. October 2020

Plan "rose"

Plan - what a word, especially in the days of Corona, or prosaically Covid-19. But yes, time and again - or still - I do have plans. I will not let myself be defeated! Only when it is time. For more than three months now I have been staying in this "monastery" in Ireland, with Sinead, my gentle and kind hostess. But gentle does not mean that she does not know how to use a sharp blade. But she uses it wisely, perhaps she simply "mislayed" the sword in her creative chaos. But maybe I don't feel the cut either, I'm not that quick on the uptake sometimes. Who knows me, knows that.

But even I slowly see that I have to move on soon. Otherwise it gets too cosy, and even though I like it cosy, I am afraid that I will lose my attentiveness because of all the cosiness, and "vigilance" that perhaps is not a virtue at all, but arises from simple necessity. Even if I am the dog that runs after every ball, I think that this is mainly because life is a little too cosy. After all, you have no choice if you have to pass the time. When I watch the street dogs of Xela, I don't think they are running after each ball, because they have enough to do with getting food, and looking after each other. But maybe I can play ball with them anyway. Or throw them something tasty, as if it were a ball. But that might be tricky.

Of course, life is tricky anyway. Just when I think of the comfort I love, and of Covid-19, I sometimes suspect that now this Covid-19 is raging as if it were the weasel in the chicken coop, killing all the chickens because they run around headless and scared. Yes, that image comes to mind again. We are spoiled, and often locked up, and have forgotten how to deal with any dangers, thinking we can "protect" ourselves from wild life. But admittedly, this is a story that is perhaps far-fetched. Still, I think that if the chickens were outside, and the rooster couldn't just feel important, then this one, or even a more courageous chicken, would peck out at least one eye of many a weasel, and the latter would think twice before embarking on such adventures again. Sure, one chicken would get caught - or the rooster - but even then the others would be gone, running for their lives, and the weasel would content itself with just one. More than enough. Their chances of survival might not be higher, but life would certainly be a bit more varied, wouldn't it? And they could also save themselves the Netflix subscription. After all, you are playing the main role in the exciting story yourself.

Even if the fox does get the chicken, we may remember that chickens are not our property, but at best a gift, and that we too may end up as a gift on a beautifully laid table, even if it is "only" that of worms, woodlice or snails. It should also taste good to them. I hope that they don't die from heavy metals and other hazardous waste, which is included in their dish. Or that they hopefully learn how to digest and process it so that they can make something valuable again - for others, without knowing it of course.

As a consolation, the donkey hopes that the carrot is organic, or at least full of surprises!

But of course all this is nonsense, what I am writing here. I know, or suspect, that things are more complex than a story fresh from the "brain", and not very fact-based. I have no overview, we are all characters in a novel, in the story of others, and therefore somehow bound, not quite as free as we sometimes think. But yes, maybe a little. So I'm trying to get to Guatemala despite Covid-19. Maripaz wrote me that the doors of Guatemala would always be open to me. And I take her at her word. I don't know yet whether all the doors will be open on the way. But perhaps for once it's true, where there is a will, there is a way (or vice versa?). Let's see if that is true, and if this will work. And even if this will abandons me from time to time, not as reliable as desired, that is hardly the intention of the will. Even the will needs a break from time to time.

It is simply still still true, I would like to be reliable. Because almost all my life I have thought about which virtue I should cultivate so that I have at least one. I have tried so many, but they were beyond my reach. But I thought it was possible to be reliable, even if also this virtue, like every virtue, has obviously its limits. But again and again, when I think of perhaps returning to Switzerland this winter, an uneasy question is arising hidden behind the joy. And I remember that I am already behind schedule in keeping my promise to be back in Guatemala in September 2020, almost a year ago. It is difficult to be completely reliable. But I continue to work on this virtue that is so familiar to me. It is my guideline, my safety rope, and has opened up undreamt-of potential.

Since I am slowly preparing to continue my journey, I need more time again. And perhaps Sinead would like me to do this or that project or to finish what we have begun half-heartedly. So I have decided to stop earlier with this monthly report, and only write texts about experiences and reflections spontaneously, one text at a time. Maybe I will also no longer announce new texts, as I did till now, but trust that if someone wants to read about my journey, he or she will find these texts. "Mosaics" + "." + "ch" (like the country of my birth, Switzerland) = mosaics.ch. This should be easy to remember. If not, take it easy like me: I have given up having to remember everything. I know that when I really need to remember, it is just around the corner - somehow. How the brain works, and how memory works, is a real, sweet secret to me. So you could say that if I were an artist, I am now living, so to speak, in the phase that will perhaps one day be called Rose, or Color Purple. Who knows.

Should anyone ever miss me because I'm not there right now, then please remember that I am reliable, that I do my best. And if I'm not, trust that life is fundamentally stable, but that there are always surprises in store for renewal. And for once you can take my advice, of course, to follow it freely. Follow your will. It is beautiful to travel with the will. If it is missing or you miss it, if only pain fills your soul, then be patient, because in pain there are many a door hidden, which can open the view to a new path, which can be taken again together with Beloved Will. Or consider that it can happen that suddenly an old friend knocks at the door.

PS: Sinead came strolling into the kitchen just now, in her cuddly mousy grey dressing gown, still a little shriveled, her face a little closed, like a child sucking her thumb with her cuddle cloth in her hand. I said something, greeted her with some saying, and immediately she began to chirp, her face brightened up, as fast as a sunrise near the equator! And already she told me a story, ready for print, about the "fax", and that they should have stopped the technical development at that time. It is impossible to trace the power of her story. and the way she told me. But yes, they still did meet personally at the fax machine those days, and they could quickly send hand-signed documents as a valid order, and mostly, the destinations of the faxes could have been Timbuktu or Zanzibar, and not a IP number. There are still words that resonate like that to me, "Guatelinda", or "mi tierra", and maybe not so strangely, "Home".

Even the music Sinead supplied spontaneously, and said: it fits. Exactly: "I'm still standing" (Elton John), but she took it even further. Better? A bit slower, less action: "Stairways to Heaven" (Led Zeppelin)

Sunday, 18. October 2020

Finally...

A few days ago, Sinead and I had gone to Rathwood to take a walk in the forest nearby. A recreation area with family and animal park, junk goods for sale and coffee shop, and trails in the forest that is unexpectedly wild, although the paths are mostly well maintained, and a few benches invite to sit, and smoke a cigarette. We were both a little pensive, and for the time being we walked silently. But the walking in the woods had its effect. All the different trees, made up by humidity and weather, the undergrowth and the mushrooms - including beautiful fly agarics - and small clearings in gloomy, densely overgrown fir forests to the left or right, with grounds full of moss-covered stones and pumps, on which a mysterious light fell every now and then, and one almost expected elves and gnomes to appear.

But again I was quite lost in thought, thinking of everything and nothing, as so often. I asked her out of the blue, "shall we make Basmati rice to accompany the stir-fry?" and she laughed at my distant thoughts, and yes, so did I. At the same time I felt that my feet were right on the ground. Every step, every muscle I felt, every bump and root under those feet, saw the sparkling water drops on the blades of grass that covered the path. And I saw the stag and the roe deer grazing amazingly calmly in a grassy path nearby. What a peaceful sight.

Still I was quite worried about my being lost in thought so often, but then I knew I had my feet firmly on the ground, or at least always one at a time. And just now I thought - forgive me - how silly it is to ask a thoughtful person like me, why are you so lost in thought? It's as if you would ask a shepherd dog, why he's running all the time to fetch a sheep getting close to the abyss or running wild. He would just "smile", wag his tail, and be off again, following his calling. A spade is a spade, as Sinead so wisely said last night.

Everything is fine.

PS: One last word :-)
Just had breakfast, and Sinead chirping at my side. We talked about the Irish, talking so much, maybe to keep warm, or maybe to simply talk in beautiful words about nothing, meaning everything. And we got to talk about Prince, being shy all his life, and such a good performer at the same time, any instrument he could play. Let him have the last word:

Prince: "Purple Rain"

Monday, 19. October 2020

Latest news - Travel fever

Wednesday, 21, October 2020

After a good night's sleep, I woke up fresh this morning, ready to cut the Gordian knot! Sinead was there right away and drove me to Carlow to the travel agency. And I got down to business:

• Flight booked for Saturday, 21 November 2020, 18:20 from Dublin, with Iberia
  1x change in Madrid, Guate: 22 November 7.20
• Covid-19 test fixed in Dublin: Friday, 20 November 2020, 16.00 (result by e-mail 24 hours). Requirement for immigration in Guate, must not be older than 72 hours.
• Overnight stay in Dublin: still undefined
• Gilda picks me up in Guate. And I stay with her for a few days, she helps me with bureaucratic matters in the capital. She is very reliable and has been a great support for years. Gives me joy and confidence.

I hope that everything works out. And that the waves will slowly smooth out a bit. Here in Ireland, too, lockdown is announced again from tomorrow, Thursday 22 October, early morning. Level 5. For 6 weeks.

I hope that for all of you the doors will open a bit wider again soon, and the waves will become smoother!
Nos vemos.

😅🏄🏻

Current updates of travel "plans"

Tullow, 23. October 2020, 10:19
Last night I received the last "bad news". My booked flight has already been cancelled again. My next appointment is now on

2 December (end of the lockdown period of 6 weeks here in Ireland)

To all of us good luck!