The Long Goodbye

It would be easy for me to hide behind my anger and disappointment. It would be easy to use all this bitterness as leverage to make me forget you. But I want to do it properly. I want to move on without saying that you were no good. I want to move on without saying that you were not worth it. I want to move on the hard way. That's the way I want to do it.
It is not me who thinks those lame thoughts; it is not me who curses you, going over and over again the same ol' pathetic grievances. I denounce that part of me which entertains thoughts of this kind. I can only be held accountable for my overt behaviour.
Of course, if I do that, then I would have to face the real reason why I let things come to where they are now. And this is not easy to answer. I would have to look things in the eye and admit that most probably, I simply...got bored, I started feeling trapped, I wasn't worthy of my trophy...same ol', same ol'...But this is honest, this is as honest as it can be; things were over, and I had to move on. And I did move on, at least some part of me did, I need now to somehow move the rest of me and stop thinking that maybe I don't want this; this is the only thing I want. Anything else is just a lie, a pipe-dream I weave around me in order to shelter my indolent self from discomfort and pain;
So, I only preach honesty. I only strive against mediocrity and bullshit. And my number one target is me. I really got me by the balls now.
I can offer me no word of solace (not even a quantum of it). It would be really easy for me to end up either in Heaven or Hell. It would be really easy to be good or bad. But, if not Heaven or Hell, then what? Is it really so easy to be good?
Yes and no. It is easy to be good, far too easy; no matter what people think, there are far too many recipes around for goodness (e.g. religion, law etc.) but this is precisely the catch; "goodness" follows no recipes. So being good turns out not to be so easy after all, and to be more accurate, people don't know what they are talking about when they refer to goodness. No one can tell you what you should do and so you are left...alone. So, what now?
I'll start peeling off my layers of lies slowly and steadily to see what...lies down there. But it's not that simple cause the more you peel away, the more layers you find. The deeper you descend into the abyss, seeking reasons and answers, the more you end up face to face with more intricate and painful questions. So I'll have to sneak upon my self, catch me by surprise, transcend me by becoming...even more immersed in me. What does that mean?
My choices are not tame, conservative ones; but they are not radical either. I choose to live in-between; no Platonic idea(l)s, no slavish, mechanical rule following for me. I'm no God, no Beast either. No man's land is my home...which I think is, actually, the only...home fit for man.
So, I can work only on my methodology. If I want to soothe my wounds I'll rub them with salt. I'll rest my self on a wooden cot, out in the cold. I'll quench my thirst with salty water. Change will come slowly through me; no Deus ex machina will come to the rescue, since any "God" (family, friend, lover...) is always nothing more than a cheap man-made mechanical device which offers comfort rather than any kind of genuine explanation. This is not for me.
Only when I'll be happy and whole for being on my own will I be able to look at the stars again. Only when I know I don't need anyone to carry my sorry ass, will I be able to offer something in return. My gift...to me then is only this...my beloved thin line; my Lounge, which lurks between arrival and departure. This is my metaphysics of the astounding which aspires not to get to some kind of truth but simply to offer pleasure, honest pleasure through my art. And if I can be so generous with myself then this will shine through to someone beyond me.

Berlin

"Berlin ist eine Stadt, verdammt dazu, ewig zu werden, niemals zu sein” (Berlin is a city condemned forever to becoming and never being) Karl Scheffler, 1910

It is good that I find you in Berlin dear friend since it epitomizes my modus vivendi. Berlin was completely destroyed during the 43-44 air raids, and so it had to reinvent itself again from scratch. In my book that carries a lot of weight and so it feels nice to see someone paying homage to such a rebirth.
It is a solace and a torment to realise that we are immersed in life. It is a solace to be able to "flow" with life, each and everyday, fully absorbed, coping with the adversities and joys. But it is a torment too, since it is so easy, in this ego-less coping, to forget that it is us doing the living and not someone else. It is so easy to forget that we are the guests of honour on our own stage. This is our curse and our blessing; to be able within a single breath to change perspectives: to be conscious of the world and of the fact that we are conscious of it. To be able to balance ourselves on the thin line between these two perspectives. To be able to embrace the gift of consciousness while at the same time realizing that it bears with it the burden of choice. And what follows from this?
The conundrum of a profound relation to ourselves and the world which yields the yearning for meaning and gives rise to questions that will remain forever, reassuringly unanswered.
This is Scheffler's point: there are no answers, only questions. There is no being, only becoming...

The Lounge

The voice on the speaker announced the boarding gate number for the next departure. My arm jerked; I must have dozed off. I got up and slowly dragged my feet across the hall towards the huge glass windows. I looked outside, squinted, but I wasn’t able to make out anything I hadn’t already seen before. I stretched my arms for a while by grabbing and pulling the cold window panes. I amused my self with the thought that if someone was looking at me, he might have thought that I was desperately trying to tear the place down.

Far from it; this is my home. I dwell here. I have chosen to be in a state of perpetual readiness. I revel in a thin line between the actual and the potential. One part of me knows very well that my boarding gate number will never come up. Another part though, patiently waits, with a feeling of subdued anticipation, for such an announcement. My life is the upshot of a constant negotiation between these two quasi-poles. Gloomy days thus, are underscored by an accentuated realization that my number will never come up. Conversely, brighter mornings spring from my fervent belief that I will soon be on my way.
I live a full life, don’t get me wrong. There’s a lot going on here, actually much more than meets the eye, and I always try to make the most of it. I get to meet all sorts of people. They come and go; they’re always in a hurry; they seem convinced, for some reason, not only that they come from somewhere but also that they are going somewhere. They are scary sometimes mostly because of this certainty which seems to underlie their every move. They are certain that there’s really a destination. No! the word ‘certain’ is not strong enough for their state of mind and that’s why they never seem to understand my question. “So where are you going today?” I usually ask in a friendly tone. They are always happy to give me, in a jiffy, all those names of continents, countries, cities, neighbourhoods, and city streets; when I then ask, “Are you sure?” They give me that weary look, as if they are trying to peer behind my eyes, and then politely excuse themselves, and walk away.
This certainty of theirs has been a never ending source of bewilderment for me. Most people have answers for everything; they even have answers for questions no one has asked yet. At times, a rather informal chat never fails to reveal the astounding observation that they are ‘on schedule’; they insist on the importance of not only having a schedule, a timetable, a ‘plot’ of some kind, so as to know where they are heading to, but also of sticking to it with religious punctuality. They abhor the idea of a listless life, much more than one in which one simply doesn’t keep up with his programme. The former is simply unacceptable, a disgrace; the latter, a ‘noble’ failure, something that could happen to anyone. This is why they look at me like that when I ask, ‘are you sure?’ They consider it an insult, of the worst kind, that one could even entertain the thought that their certainty could be something less than…certain. They dismiss, all too easily, the possibility that there could actually be a meaningful uncertainty; not to mention, the slightly more intricate idea that meaning springs precisely from this uncertainty.
It is astonishing that most people utterly fail to realize that what is most stimulating, tantalizing and mesmerizing to them is precisely that which makes them deviate from their schedule. Be it their favourite pastime, their food preferences, their daily routine at work or even their...work itself, and of course, their choice of partners. They fail to see that what is more alluring to them is precisely what challenges their norms and preconceptions; and this is usually manifested in the face of a disturbing, yet deeply gratifying feeling of disorientation. But because people are terrified by the disturbing aspect of this deviation, shivering at the thought that they might lose their beloved patterns, habits and—who knows—even themselves in it, they choose to stick to their schedules, to what is old and familiar to them, unwillingly ostracising and thus depriving themselves from the gratifying and beneficent aspect of this process. They fail to recognize the undeniable allure of this less travelled path and thus condemn themselves to the mundane and meaningless routine of a nauseating repetition. Trivial matters attest to this pattern. A minute sartorial extravagance or an unexpected gustatory novelty makes one feel delighted and surprisingly refreshed. But how often do people succumb to these simple detours? And crucially, how often do they really consider a detour on cardinal domains of their lives? Would they consider a career change? A divorce?
One could retort here that this is not the case. People constantly take chances, experiment and try new things; this is how they move forward. I would reply that they do that during their childhood and adolescence. This is actually the mark of youth and at the same time its most dreaded aspect. The seemingly unconditional willingness to experiment, the unabashed contempt for order and rigour, the frivolous surrender to life itself; this has been the adult’s terra incognita and at the same time the most coveted desire, the long lost Arcadia. Adulthood revels in deliberation and reflection at the expense of action. The price we pay for getting older is that we, more often than not, fail to overcome the fact that moving forward always entails the risk of falling…backwards. Unfortunately, you can’t have the one without the other. Youth, somehow magically resolves this and focuses undaunted at the sun in the horizon while ignoring the lingering shadow behind. Do adults really do that?
I have come across a few who are not like that. They are hard to come by but when they do show up, you get an eerie feeling alternating with one of unadulterated joy; very much reminiscent of the disturbing yet gratifying feeling of disorientation just mentioned. You get these mixed feelings mostly when you realize, at some point, that they must have always been in the lounge but because of some strange streak of events, some weird twist of fate, you simply failed to come across them or even if you did, you don’t have any recollection of the event.
No questions are necessary in order to discern those fellow loungers. Language is useless; you recognize them by their comportment, their style, which although stubbornly eludes a coherent description in words, it registers vehemently on a bodily level. It is a chemistry of some kind but, one which weaves its web, painstakingly through chance meetings and furtive glances over long periods of time. So, although you don’t have to go through intricate syllogisms in order to recognize the fellow lounger; and you come at that ‘conclusion without premises’, which Spinoza talks about; your ‘conclusion’ is far from whimsical. It is the result of a seemingly, listless process inherent to your body. These fellow travellers become companions for life. Their light dazzles you, and you are attracted to them like a moth to a lamp, until you are almost consumed. They give you a warmth which mingles your modalities. It is the radiance of their smell which looks like a long forgotten taste. You touch them with your eyes and your hands stare in awe at their figure which invades your most private parts.
These fellow travellers were always a part of you and you were always a part of them. They share the same lust for life; they are devoid of norms and certainties. They lack ‘plots’ because they constantly invent themselves in this lounging process. They stoically wait for their departure while constantly arriving. They are free from the tyranny of thoughts, from idealized end-points, and aspirations for the future; they are free from destinations and departures. They are immersed in life and they literally ‘see the point’ of all their actions with shocking immediacy and accuracy.
The lounger knows that this is not the same as ‘taking life as it comes’; this is not mere fatalism or surrender to the hardships of living. This is the outcome of being able to live for the moment, while at the same time being in the position to deliberate accurately and wisely. The lounge provides the bedrock for these seemingly contradictory capacities. It only takes a little effort to see that the state of being in the lounge; the state of dwelling between the potential and the actual is only the flip side of the remarkable ability to constantly negotiate deliberation and immediacy by fusing them into a seamless whole. Youth perpetually extended…anything is possible.