Relatively independent 

In my case, being independent never really works out so well. Maybe because I move all the time, and constantly depend on somebody. Not to speak about the leaves and the oxygen. So it's no miracle that I have a lot of troubles using words like "independent", and the even more daring "free", also challenging my mind. But of course that's only my very own and personal difficulty. In this sense, I am probably exactly the independent and free solid human being, that I refuse in the very same breath.

This thin line that separates us humans from others, the "inside" from the "outside", or at least that's what it seems. "It's your fault, only you can change that", or: "you're doing this just for yourself", etc. are thus up for discussion. Also whether it is clear that thinking only happens within me, in my little democracy, which is enclosed in my skin, with a parliament that sits in my brain, that finds a common voice in the speaker.

This morning, when a friend wrote me that the "whole thing" (my last text) was clearly a bit "crazy", but "if it does you good = wonderful!", it immediatly got me going. Although she most likely didn't mean any harm, I was immediately offended, and threatened to choke in virtual isolation. It was as if I was doing things just for myself, even without knowing who or what I was. I don't write because it does me good. Anyone who thinks that underestimates my perhaps useless suffering! I write as I breathe, and yet I simply do my work! But that is not just for me! It annoys me, even though I understand what is probably meant by it, and that even makes it worse. But the eternal, just for you, just for me. That's you, and that's me. And statements like a rock does not live, a leaf has no thoughts, simply annoy me. That only shows the boundlessness of ignorance, including mine.

Howgh, once again! As if I was right, and had finally grasped the dimensions of the universe and could write a new legislation in my flying thoughts, ready to take effect for everyone, and for every ones happiness. Our CO²-fired measuring units and knowledge are really hard to match. What has long been practised becomes reality. Whoever nails, becomes a nail himself.

So I would only too gladly get some job done again, make head with nails as we call it in Switzerland. There would be enough work, unfortunately all kind of co-dependent jobs. My hands are still tied, at least still on this early morning. But the doors of the mysterious garage finally seem to be opening and maybe soon I can do something else with my hands and muscles than just letting fingers rush from key to key as if it were a matter of life and death. Then I will be able to fill and bind rubbish bags again, move and rearrange some heavy and no longer used things, and, according to Sinead's instructions, make one or the other appliance that has reached its end of life disappear into the large skip. This rubbish is then recycled, which means that most of it is probably sunk in a Landfill to close the cycle again; to fill the earth again with the waste products of our wisdom, to let them do their work in the ground, in the hope that after thousands of years there will be something there that someone can use again. Well, it probably starts faster. Soon, bacteria, mice, carrion recyclers, dump thieves or something else will be at work.

It is still uncertain whether this specific project will work out and I will be able to sink into bed once more content and physically tired. Measuring times, weights, lengths and other units of measurement, such as reliability or punctuality, are a matter of luck here in Ireland, and the boundaries between right and wrong are also somewhat blurred. Unusual for a Swiss who has long been used to measuring in a civilised way and in metric units, i.e. in clear and absolute measures, and therefore knows a little better, without any doubt. After all, it is no coincidence that the Swiss are one of the world market leaders in the secure control of financial flows, public order or in precisly mixing concrete. We are so exact and reliable. We have also found the most plausible solutions for coexistence and the allocation of property, for copyright, and a fair division of the world, including the right formula for humanity. Even if some export business is not yet quite as good as we would like it to be - at least officially. But that is of obviously a challenge, because if we were really successful in exporting democracy, we would perhaps have to suffer from a positive trade balance, realising that the consequences could be somehow undesired. So better not.

However, the Irish are by no means backward, although they often still use "stones" (Stones) to measure their body weight, or generously determine the carefully walled and maintained perimeter of their rural bungalow with Irish acres, or put on Irish seven-league boots to walk the boundaries of their country estate. That can easily take an unexpectedly long time. Not like in Switzerland, where even walking usually means that it takes about a quarter of an hour to walk a kilometre. Well, more or less, but relatively precisely. At least then everyone knows the approximate distance and time frame.

But the Irish might be more intelligent and wise, by making use of the space that only conscious blur and ambiguities can really reveal. They are very independent, also stubborn in the best sense of the word. It is much more pleasant when you weigh nine stones and it is still uncertain whether you are now anorexic, i.e. quite slim and slender, or whether you are obese, i.e. a bit too fat and somewhat clumsy. Out of a wise lack of knowledge, you can dance freely, as you please, without your freedom of expression being impaired by all too precise information.

Recycling or trash, that's the question here

Breaking News: It is not only the Election Day in the US, including Steve Bannon speaking on Irish Radio to praise Trump's healing and unrecognised impact, but an important and long-awaited decision has been made here in Tullow: Sinead ordered the skip! It will be delivered tomorrow, and comprises nine cubic metres of cargo space. So: the work can begin, nails will fear for their heads, and I will probably, pleasantly tired, then remain silent online for a while, and no longer confuse the world with strange thoughts, which I have entirely cooked up on my own in my private kitchen, completely uninfluenced and independently. I'm glad that I'll be dependent again for a while, and that Sinead will show me my place and make sure that I'm not all too freely sinking anything wrong into the pit.

This morning not even the red light is on. Not only does the internet not work, as so often, this nuisence is not even properly displayed. Well, maybe Sinead is on the phone so early, because in such a case the internet is wisely interrupted, because you shouldn't want to do two things at a time. Whether this is due to Catholic prudence or Protestant know-it-all is not clear to me.

Sometimes I am afraid that all my opinions about Ireland have only originated in this mystical place, and do not correspond in any way to Irish reality in general. When I booked the flight to Guatemala, everything went like clockwork, even the cancellation of the first attempt to fly went through with precision. And when I arranged the date for the Covid-19-test in Dublin, and postponed it again, everything worked just perfectly. Even in Switzerland it could never have been so precise: "When would you like to test?" "Tuesday, 1 December 16.00, please." Two minutes later the answer, clearly structured and precise. Tuesday: 1 December 2020 16:00. Confirmed. What more can you expect.

There is one thing I still don't know precisely: where exactly do the lines run between this magical world on Shillelagh Road here in Tullow, and the precise wheelwork I keep finding and whose epicentre I locate on Slaney Road in Dublin. This invisible border remains a mystery to me. And where the borders between Tullow and Dublin blur, they also blur between me and you. I mean the screen in front of my nose, of course.

PS: Even if Einstein had worked at the Swiss Patent Office (Corrigendum) in Bern for quite a while, and perhaps already then had been thinking - inspired by the work with patents and rights - about the relativity of things, his theory of relativity is certainly easier to experience at first hand here in Ireland, even if it remains hard to grasp in general, remains a conundrum.

PS2: Bowel contents, which (besides internet connection and USA elections) influence my writing: delicious pancakes filled with chilli sauce, sour cream and guacamole (avocado), plus salad - and not to forget: a glass of wine.

Wednesday, 4, November 2020, Shillelagh Road. Your independent typesetter.

Latest update, 11 November 2020:
The trough is finally filled. After three years and three months we have made it. The garage is now free of rubbish to such an extent that you can move around in it again. The cats have survived the clean-up period, although they have lost some ideal hiding places. In the meantime, however, they have made themselves comfortable on an old armchair and seem to be satisfied with it. The trough has not yet been removed. Maybe they are still waiting for the obsessive cleaner to be disposed of at the same time.

Full skip. Everything towed by themselves. I was amazed how much energy I still have left.