Archive for the ‘writing’ Category

Anybody In a Tuxedo at the Casino?

Posted: December 19, 2018 in author, book; books, communication, editor, epistolary, Fiction, literature, meaning, Musing, Musings, Novel, opinion, philosophy, relationships, writing
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Sweet Friend,

For the first time, I’m going to Nevada. I dislike gambling, but I’m looking forward to seeing the opulence of the casino. I wonder what changed since those old Hollywood movies and now. How is luxury displayed? How are women or men dressed? I’m looking for my tuxedo.

Wise Friend,

I flew once to Reno Nevada for a conference. During the flight, I sat next to a beautiful American woman from Reno, who told me the Hilton hotel has a great shopping centre under the hotel, a grand casino at the entrance and a great night bar ‘The Garage’ in the lobby. I was so excited! While passing through Los Angeles, I had time to buy a gorgeous blood red woollen dress with a turtleneck.

I entered the hotel, and in the lobby, I saw tens of poker machine, an image I distaste, and I forgot what she told me.

I went to a party of the conference. Those attending were aged hippie-computer-geeks with body postures affected by sitting twenty-three hours a day in front of their computers, and not enough hours dedicated to fitness—movements and behaviours frozen in the sixties, looking sad, trying to catch up with times. I watched them dancing.

There was something so grotesque about their sense of dress and dance. Everybody was keen to pick somebody up for a night of “romance.” I didn’t want to see any of them undressed. Among them, there was one dancer who knew how to move. He looked better and fitter. I watched him and with my passion for dance, I enjoyed the only graceful person on the dancing floor.

Sweet Friend,

Anybody in a tuxedo?

Wise Friend,

No.

By the evening, I understood that the poker machines were the casino (duh!).

Nevertheless, I put my red dress on and was ready to walk through the casino. I was looking very well, but I expected to be the most modestly dressed woman. I expected glamorous women with gorgeous evening dresses, with naked backs, great low cut fronts, and men in tuxedos. Everybody was dressed in jeans, sweatshirts and pants. Some colleagues, who liked me, told me I was looking like a model. The ones who never liked me asked why I dressed up. From modesty, though in red, I was the glamorous one. Disappointed but flattered.

I gave in and gambled $20.00. I won a bit in between, lost it all by the end – my tributes to this world of strange fun.

The next day I visited the shopping centre—a lousy array of cheap shops.

Later, I decided to go the ‘The Garage’, I in red, they in jeans. A colleague of mine joined me. I ordered a virgin Marguerite (which I found out means without alcohol, duh!) and then I had a great time watching the locals. They came in couples and danced ‘western dancing’. I’m not crazy about non-couple dancing such as line dancing. I watched only the couples, and I had such a good time. The western swing is so gracious and requires great skills. I loved it. My colleague left. I didn’t want to go to bed. Imagine, being alone, watching couples dance and being happy. Not bad!

Take your jeans and a t-shirt. Leave the tuxedo at home.

Sweet Friend,

Ruined it for me.

Interesting Transitions, Aren’t They?

Posted: December 18, 2018 in author, book; books, communication, editor, epistolary, Fiction, literature, Musings, networking, Novel, opinion, philosophy, relationships, writing
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Sweet Friend,

Lately, I thought about my son a lot. About the sheer experience of bringing up a child. About him, only a few days old, looking so beautiful. About his first night at home after his birth when suddenly I heard him hiccupping and when I looked at him. He kicked away his nappy, and he was naked. We took him out of his bed unto ours. I stared at him amazed by his beauty and his happy eyes wondering around with a sparkling twinkle and the unique calm of Caesarean born babies.

Then as always, my thoughts drifted to the time when he was two. At that age of my son, I was aware daily how much I loved him and liked him and how amazed I was every day by every little change. It was the age of what I’d call qualitative jumps.

I thought back to the last events during the previous two years before I went to work across the oceans. To the night when we had a fight, he left the kitchen and then came back and with a strangled voice told me: “I love you so much!” He stopped touching and hugging us when he turned thirteen. For the first time in six years, he approached me very timidly and hugged me.

Wise Friend,

I remember well when my son turned nineteen. He didn’t yet develop into a grown-up man. His friends did. When they visited or called on the phone, they had those bedroom looks and voices and talked in a flirty manner with me. I felt like laughing at them and ignored that. It meant nothing. They were playing their games.

When they gathered four-five of them in our little apartment, I always went out for a walk, as I didn’t want my son to notice his friends’ game.

Sweet Friend,

I’m reflecting more and more on what my son is becoming. He is maturing, and I even can seriously consider his opinions about some areas in my life.

He tells me about his decisions. I try so carefully to let him free, to let him take chances afraid he might hurt himself, so willing to let him try while he is young and with no family to support yet.

I so much don’t want to cut his wings, and so much I’d like him to be wise and measure everything.

There is nothing like this experience of bringing up children and wanting to learn from them and through them learn what dignity, life, and healthy freedom are about.

As they grow and become our friends, we forget that at their age we had our maturity and in the process of accumulating years, we might have thought arrogantly we took the wisdom with us, and we left nothing for the generations after us.

Wise Friend,

I’m also discovering that people close to my son’s age are becoming serious conversation partners, so I guess they are growing up.

Lately, when these young people (older, however, than my son) show to be wise and in their ways, mature and charming, I’m taken by surprise. Their talk shows wisdom and kindness, and I am relating to them like to equal minds and souls. I have to remind myself, and I have to remind them I could be their mum.

They enjoy talking with me, and they ask me to forget my age. I can’t and I shouldn’t and I won’t. Some things are not right if one crosses the boundaries.

Sweet Friend,

Exactly, these young men enjoy conversing with us, and I love it!

Wise Friend,

Currently, I’m at a stage when much younger men court me. I rule them out for a serious involvement.

It is much better than before when I was attracting men at least 70 years old. No way!

However, I ruled out a charming twenty-nine year old, as it feels too funny. Pity, though.

There is another man, thirty-six years old, who wouldn’t need ruling out, hadn’t he been such a bore. I’m just slightly older than he. He is reasonably well read with a so-so sense of humour.

However, when he talks he sounds like a schoolboy doing his homework and trying to impress the teacher. I tried a kiss, which was so bad that the rest wasn’t worthwhile trying further, anyway. He also has no children, and he would wake up in a few years he wants to father. By then I would close shop, and I don’t need these aggravations.

Sweet Friend,

Interesting transitions, aren’t they? How would we sense them this way without having the experience of bringing up our own children?

Wise Friend,

No way!
Meanwhile, I enjoy my dance lessons, and I’m passionate about them. It’s fun, romance in a bottle, but they do an excellent job for me.

Does Life Take Over One’s Life Relentlessly?

Posted: December 16, 2018 in author, book; books, communication, editor, epistolary, Fiction, literature, meaning, Musing, Musings, Novel, opinion, philosophy, relationships, writing
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Wise Friend,

I met a few people today, and we talked about how we felt at the turn of the millennium. By now it’s such a non-event. It saddens me a bit.

Sensitive Friend,

Before the turn of the millennium, I met a guy who used to lead regular millennium-related get-togethers. The Millennial Café.

They analysed similarities between theories or conspiracies developed before years 2,000 and 1,000.

I joined that group once, if I remember well. It was what I wanted and was looking for in my peregrinations around the world: interactions with intelligent and fun people and a great theme. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to beep or to be quiet.

Wise Friend,

Yes, there are many such groups in US universities. Are they challenging? Fun, too? Is there a lot of interaction? I wonder.

Sensitive Friend,

It quite surprised me when I entered the small room. I expected a large group of people where I could get lost and listen. I love watching people interact. I took a while to accept that such an eclectic small group can be in the position to influence policy.

Wise Friend,

The strange world of political decisions in a super-power!

Sensitive Friend,

I raised that question, and the group leader told me that at that moment, their impact on policy was fairly circumspect.

How many such amazing little groups sprout in these great universities as ‘secret organisations?’

Wise Friend,

I don’t know, but all those strange voluntary organisations are one of the marvels of the modern world.

I hope you didn’t keep quiet. That would have been a waste of your intelligence as far as I’m concerned. In such groups, you speak when you have something to say or ask. It’s a free for all.

Sensitive Friend,

They wanted to replace the word ‘superstition.’

I was thinking about the tendency of superstitious people to ‘collect’ additional superstitions as their ‘knowledge’ gets richer.  Something like ‘globalisation or integrating the faiths, rites or traditions’.  I became obsessed with finding a word.

I told him. Ouch! “Integrating the faiths” was hardly one of his “superstitions.” Quite the contrary, he didn’t think there was a real tolerance if you can’t accept that the “other” really is “other.” He wanted to take upon the task, to present the group “with an irreducible other, which would drive control freaks crazy.”

Wise Friend,

When you talked about the “integration of faith or ritual”, did you refer to the willingness of people, whose religions are based on many superstitions, to adopt Western habits or rites as part of their superstitious makeup?

Sensitive Friend,

Yes. Had I conveyed it any other way? If yes, Ouch!

I asked a dear friend who had a PhD in linguistics. Clearly, I wanted to impress. She jokingly suggested – “routinised premonitional intuition” – or RPI !!! Quite a mouthful! How are you going to explain such a mouthful expression to non-English speaking superstitious whoever? The intention was not to offend them. This group leader had to use the term in the media and in his communication with people involved in cults or religions.

To my astonishment, he liked the expression. He replied quickly “Why premonitional? Apocalyptic beliefs — the cosmic transformation is happening now — is a condition of heightened (hyperactive) and improvisational premonitional intuition.”

Somehow, I never followed up. What a pity! Life took over my life.

Relentlessly.

Whom Do You Call a Weakling?

Posted: December 13, 2018 in author, book; books, communication, editor, epistolary, Fiction, literature, meaning, Musing, Novel, opinion, philosophy, relationships, writing
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Wise Friend,

The intensity I’m feeling now in enjoying art again is so soothing. I feel that I’m looking after myself when I make time for art and for the other silly things I like.

Last week, I drove to New York to attend a ballet performance. I drove back in the snow for the first time in my life-scary.

During the last few days, I was angry with men.

Sweet Friend,

Don’t tell me you are now thinking of them as a sub-species?

Wise Friend,

Not at all and especially not nowadays. Not when having you as my wise friend. I know so many good men. I have a son, siblings, a father – these are all beautiful people, strong, manly, loving husbands, fathers and friends.

Today, I had a few frustrating experiences; not romantic, only professional, but annoying beyond belief.

I met a whole group of men so fragile emotionally. I was staring at them, telling myself I might give up on ever having another marriage. Not with such types. I want a relationship free of weak men. I had this fleeting decision, and I was serene.

Sweet Friend,

I know atrocious women, and I know atrocious men.

Once, Michael, our mutual friend, wrote: “Probably, I belong to the group of men ‘unable to assume responsibilities.’ However, we should not rush here. Sometimes, assuming responsibility requires cutting into “living” flesh. Other times, the hesitation might signal fear to not wound (oneself and others), or just lack of confidence in a specific moment. Whichever you turn it, you can explain why and how each time.”

Would you call him a weakling?

Wise Friend,

No, I wouldn’t.

Sweet Friend,

Your calculations of positives (you’re now serene) and negatives (giving up something you want and need) would end up (please don’t reproach me for writing these) being false, as nothing is sadder than being alone for decades. To go to bed and wake up alone and not spending your life with somebody you may share emotions, sufferings, would be very difficult. Don’t wish yourself such a life. Trust your stars. If you end up alone, as life might be, I trust you know how to enjoy it anyway. This is who you are, enthusiastic and full of interests. Still, without sadness, try to find a man. Don’t lose your enthusiasm.

Wise Friend,

It was just a short moment that lasted 24 hours.

As irony would happen, as soon as I took that sudden decision, quite a few men invited me out. Another uninteresting lot. I must convey something as, at the end of the dinner, they say we are friends with such an emphasis it makes me smile.

They don’t know who rejected whom. In the name of friendship, they ask me to not feel uncomfortable calling them. Would they know how much they bored me? Why would I call, then? Last night, one of them phoned, still in his courting stage. I returned his call and finished in a matter of minutes. While talking with him, I felt suddenly exhausted. I wanted to go to bed and read. I took a shower, my energy returned, I read for an hour, and it was so comforting. I don’t want to become a recluse.

I’ll not give up, though I might never search as I used to do a few years ago.

Do They Gestalt Daydreaming?

Posted: December 11, 2018 in author, book; books, communication, editor, epistolary, Fiction, literature, meaning, Musing, Musings, Novel, philosophy, relationships, writing
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Wise Friend,

Last night I had a strange dream. I was with my ex-husband (both of us looking much younger), and I was trying to rekindle our broken marriage.  I was seductive and trying to be endearing while talking. He responded to that. How? I can’t remember. Nothing extreme.

Then the dream moved towards a public space, and for some reason at that moment I understood my ex-husband was cheating me with a woman who happened to be there. In the dream, I knew she had been trying for a long while to seduce him.

I approached them, and I talked angrily to both, telling her she should be ashamed and stop immediately.

Another scene followed. I saw the same woman again, looking very religious and wearing a wig. I pulled her wig off the head, wanting to shame her in public. While dreaming, a thought crossed my mind they could sue me for this. That made me turn to him, and I told him I was leaving him and this time it was for good.

It was very intense. I woke up, and then I thought about Jungians, and post-Jungians, Gestalt, psychotherapists, and psychoanalysts. What a golden dream for them to explain all these mysteries of my probably turbulent soul, the hidden unknown of me to me.

Imagine Gestalt—me wanting to be a good wife and loving, the seductress and the one getting angry and violent, me the religious and both getting mad at myself. Funny, I believe none of this is true.

My Sweet Friend,

Years ago, I attended some Gestalt workshops as the trends demanded of us, and brought in my dreams to share at workshops. I felt so ridiculous in front of the therapist and others. I felt embarrassed when others went through their exercises; for them and for myself being there.

I couldn’t accept I was the street on which I was while dreaming, the tree at the corner, the grass in the meadow and the meadow itself, the table in the room, the six chairs upside down. After that, I read so much about dreams, and I can’t agree with anybody. I quickly, carelessly, developed a theory of mine, never shared.

We let our imagination run amok during the day, and we try to control it, while awake.

At night, while we sleep, we have little say and we are too relaxed even if in our dreams we are agitated.

Certainly, the dreams represent us. However, a lot of the details happen as we see others. I refuse to accept that every aspect is part of who we are, though they result from our mind combining our perceptions of what others did and our imagination in a sleeping state.

Wise Friend,

Indeed, we daydream. Do they Gestalt daydreaming? Why not?

My Sweet Friend,

What have you unleashed?

Wise Friend,

A new stream of income? A new frenzy of workshops?

Shall I Force a Smile Even When Alone?

Posted: December 9, 2018 in author, book; books, communication, editor, epistolary, Fiction, literature, meaning, Musing, Musings, Novel, opinion, philosophy, relationships, writing
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Wise Man,

Your stories are real stories. We are made of our emotions.

Lovely Friend,

We are made of emotions and mind. The latter needs drilling to hang around.

You don’t have to apologise for making me worry. Your news saddened me and I wanted to get in touch with you.

You have to share good and bad news. If friends feel for you, you don’t withdraw to save them those feelings. Unless…

Wise Friend,

Unless what?

Lovely Friend,

Unless their own anxiety overcomes their ability to listen well and support you emotionally. If that happens is better to retreat.

Wise Friend,

How do you assess that?

Lovely Friend,

You need support at a specific time, you share, and suddenly you feel you need to address the anxiety of the other. Your problem got replaced, pushed aside. Change the subject or politely leave the conversation.

Indeed, you are tired. Nothing exhausts us more than the struggles of the soul.

When I sense that demon tormenting my soul and I tell myself  “here comes again”, and I become an observer and a bearer of the torment. I split.

Wise Friend,

I don’t like these moments. They are not as tragic as they sound though they preoccupy me.

Lovely Friend,

It’s true. Others seem to think we are on the verge of disintegrating when we want to talk again and again about what happened and how we reacted. Find the rare ones who know better.

We want to look into the issue to become clear and understand why the torment started.

If there is a chance to find a solution, I let it be. The moment I sense there is no solution, and it’s only a torment, I peruse my body and my main points of personal history to find the disturbed button and then I distract myself. I never deny, but I don’t want to waste any more time. I do force a smile even if alone.

Yes, it’s easier said than done. It takes time, and it’s doable.

 

How Can Anyone Be Happy Without Self-Control?

Posted: December 8, 2018 in author, book; books, communication, editor, epistolary, Fiction, literature, meaning, Musing, Musings, Novel, opinion, philosophy, relationships, writing
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Sensitive Friend,

Unlike before, you’ve sent me many quotes about our preent times. They were all critical or sarcastic.

I believe, in many ways, we live a world better than previous generations. In reality, we don’t know how it was for them. Maybe, they complained about their own times. I am wary about those following us.

I miss the manners and a level of deliberate and desired cordiality and the control of one’s fury and anger.

Our generation started to denounce self-control and encourage us to manifest rage and fury with more ease.

It has been like a full speed snowball effect. The generations following us turned this to maximum intensity and confuse necessary and essential honesty with sheer and, in my opinion, wilful hurt.

Daily, we witness hysterical behaviour, and resilience (the new mantra) is gone. How can anyone be happy without self-control? How?

We, our generation, bears much blame for these outcomes.

Wise Friend,

Becoming actively aware not to expect from somebody who can’t offer in some areas we need support happens as part of the painful ways of personal deceptions. Hence the expression “follies of youth.” That’s why you like repeating “This is the last thing I need!”

Sensitive Friend,

You digressed. Yes, I learned to not expect the same. I’m sure, in turn, many times, I fail to give or support others, and I don’t even notice. We might think we provide a lot. Some do more than others. Some give nothing and have no doubts about their generosity. I hope many non-givers are at least honest with themselves.

Nature gifted us with a variety of optimism we call “instinct of conservation”, which doesn’t allow us to despair. “La tristezza nasce quando la speranza muore.” Google is of no help here. “The sadness is born when the hope dies.”

Though, we have our limits when nothing can be justified this way, when terrible traumas happened. We both have been spared.

How Clueless Am I?

Posted: November 24, 2018 in author, book; books, communication, editor, epistolary, Fiction, literature, Musing, Musings, Novel, opinion, philosophy, relationships, writing
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Wise Friend.

I have a highly educated friend working in garden maintenance. He asked me to join him for two weeks. I wanted to do some physical work and accepted.  We joke with quizzing customers about both us having masters, being avid readers, and somehow having become blue-collar workers.

Wow Friend,

How do you cope with the physical work?

Wise Friend,

Gosh! It is hot and hard! At the end of each day I’m tired and euphoric, intoxicated with feeling great. I love being outside, and I love hard physical work.

Wow Friend,

Shall I envy you?

Wise Friend,

Yes, please do!

We chitchat a lot. My friend mentioned that one little conversation back at home becomes an obsession for a man if he works alone and nobody distracts him. This is the risk of men doing manual work by themselves.

I attended my book club today. Mainly women. I repeated to them what he told me. You should have heard them! This is what they said:

“Women are extremely well at making an elephant out of a fly inside their heads.”

“They speak with girlfriends, and they expect full support for the ‘seriousness’ of the issue. If the friend tries to shake them up, to check their priorities, the anger would be endless.”

“She goes back home and lashes out emotionally.”

“It’s a myth that women don’t obsess.”

I was speechless. Did you know that? How clueless am I?

Wow Friend,

Somehow, yes. What’s happenning in your home?

Wise Friend,

We are human. Sometimes, we lash at the other. You don’t want to witness that. Thanks God we love each other!

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