100 Days And Nights 1000 Years Ago

July 27th 2011

“Gentlemen,” said the queen to the assembled warlords, “there were five different types of butterflies on a flower in my garden this morning. They were getting along wonderfully. If you asked me which was the best or most beautiful of them all, I wouldn’t know which to pick or how to describe them.” She glanced around the room where the five chiefs stood. They were all at odds with each other and with the crown, and they were meeting to either settle their conflicts or escalate to a full-fledged war. The men were heavy-looking and bearded except for one, who had a long, red, angry scar across his chin. Queen Gizella was known for her eccentricities and her similes. This was the woman who’d bewitched both the Byzantine emperor and the pope, a high-born without the affectations of the nobles, and without falseness. There were a few among those present who envied the king his wife. “It is plain, my queen,” said the scarred squire, “that you wish us to flutter around your face like butterflies, who’re also drawn to light, as we are drawn to your glamour.” This was a moment of dangerous flattery, because the man lied. Surely, Gisela thought, his tongue was black from lies. “But of course,” said the queen, “I thank you kindly for your apt compliment. I merely wished to help you onto the path towards amiable negotiations so that together you can bring peace and prosperity to our land. It is like a garden between high hills, this land.” She smiled at the warriors, who’d already braced themselves for controversy, and were caught off guard by her soft response. Later, when they entered the room reserved for the parley, there were freshly cut, scented flowers on the table, making the butterfly in each of them leap at the sight without them knowing it. They began their talks in an unexpectedly good mood, sobered by the sensations of beauty, and Gisela’s female reign had once again subtly succeeded.

#68/100 days 2011. Drawing: “Five butterflies” by Taffimai Metallumai.

Posted at 6:49pm and tagged with: Gisela, Taffimai, 100days2011, 68,.

“Gentlemen,” said the queen to the assembled warlords, “there were five different types of butterflies on a flower in my garden this morning. They were getting along wonderfully. If you asked me which was the best or most beautiful of them all, I wouldn’t know which to pick or how to describe them.” She glanced around the room where the five chiefs stood. They were all at odds with each other and with the crown, and they were meeting to either settle their conflicts or escalate to a full-fledged war. The men were heavy-looking and bearded except for one, who had a long, red, angry scar across his chin. Queen Gizella was known for her eccentricities and her similes. This was the woman who’d bewitched both the Byzantine emperor and the pope, a high-born without the affectations of the nobles, and without falseness. There were a few among those present who envied the king his wife. “It is plain, my queen,” said the scarred squire, “that you wish us to flutter around your face like butterflies, who’re also drawn to light, as we are drawn to your glamour.” This was a moment of dangerous flattery, because the man lied. Surely, Gisela thought, his tongue was black from lies. “But of course,” said the queen, “I thank you kindly for your apt compliment. I merely wished to help you onto the path towards amiable negotiations so that together you can bring peace and prosperity to our land. It is like a garden between high hills, this land.” She smiled at the warriors, who’d already braced themselves for controversy, and were caught off guard by her soft response. Later, when they entered the room reserved for the parley, there were freshly cut, scented flowers on the table, making the butterfly in each of them leap at the sight without them knowing it. They began their talks in an unexpectedly good mood, sobered by the sensations of beauty, and Gisela’s female reign had once again subtly succeeded.
#68/100 days 2011. Drawing: “Five butterflies” by Taffimai Metallumai.

July 24th 2011

5 notes |#

I read my first word today. I said it to one of my men and he looked at me with a wild expression, as if I’d sprouted a pair of horns. There wasn’t anything else to say. He knew what a word was, but of course he couldn’t read or write. None of us could until I learnt it. We fight and we ride. I didn’t expect it to hit me this hard. It was as if I had left one mankind and joined another. Like becoming a parent. Like falling in love for the first time. Like getting your first tooth. Amazingly, everything worthwhile seems to come for free, through the air, on wings of desire. In one moment, the black lines were just scraggly things. They didn’t make any sense to me though I knew they made sense to someone. I felt blind though I could see. In the next moment, I saw the letters. I felt the meaning rather than knew it. I could see how that word connected me with all of creation. My sixty year old body shook as if I was young again. I felt a great wind carry me away, a wind that I had summoned. I didn’t know where it would lead me, but I readied myself like for a long ride.

#65/100 days 2011. Photo: Saint Gerome reading a letter, by George de la Tour (1629). Prado, Madrid. Published in kill author as “Berg”.

Posted at 1:36pm and tagged with: Saint Gerome, 1629, George de la Tour, 100days2011,.

I read my first word today. I said it to one of my men and he looked at me with a wild expression, as if I’d sprouted a pair of horns. There wasn’t anything else to say. He knew what a word was, but of course he couldn’t read or write. None of us could until I learnt it. We fight and we ride. I didn’t expect it to hit me this hard. It was as if I had left one mankind and joined another. Like becoming a parent. Like falling in love for the first time. Like getting your first tooth. Amazingly, everything worthwhile seems to come for free, through the air, on wings of desire. In one moment, the black lines were just scraggly things. They didn’t make any sense to me though I knew they made sense to someone. I felt blind though I could see. In the next moment, I saw the letters. I felt the meaning rather than knew it. I could see how that word connected me with all of creation. My sixty year old body shook as if I was young again. I felt a great wind carry me away, a wind that I had summoned. I didn’t know where it would lead me, but I readied myself like for a long ride.
#65/100 days 2011. Photo: Saint Gerome reading a letter, by George de la Tour (1629). Prado, Madrid. Published in kill author as “Berg”.

July 17th 2011

4 notes |#

On certain days, I can feel what it means to be a man, because what we’re told a man is, how he should behave, what he should say and shouldn’t say, what he wears, how he makes sense of this world, and how he helps others to make sense of him, is so wrong. And I don’t want you to take this last point lightly, because though we walk around pretending to be this or that, we are in fact empowered by the gods to project our innermost self onto the world—if we know what it is, that self. All this came together for me when I saw a beautiful, kind creature, who made me want to ask her to be mine right there and then. Alas, she was already promised to someone else, as was I, so that we only exchanged one look, but in this look—oh my—lay all the manliness and womanliness that was ever exchanged between two people. I told all this, or tried to tell, my best friend, but he only looked at me foolishly. I told my father, who beat me for something else. I told my mother, who tousled my hair and did not listen. Perhaps I’m not supposed to be with that girl. Perhaps we’re only mirrors to each other in which we seek ourselves. Or perhaps I’m dreaming and when I wake up, the world will be much simpler and straighter, and she won’t exist in it. Or perhaps she will be there, but I won’t, so that I’m the result of her imagination, an unattainable lover and magical mirror-man.

#58/100 Days 2011. Drawing by Taffimai.

Posted at 6:33pm and tagged with: Taffimai, 58, 100days2011,.

On certain days, I can feel what it means to be a man, because what we’re told a man is, how he should behave, what he should say and shouldn’t say, what he wears, how he makes sense of this world, and how he helps others to make sense of him, is so wrong. And I don’t want you to take this last point lightly, because though we walk around pretending to be this or that, we are in fact empowered by the gods to project our innermost self onto the world—if we know what it is, that self. All this came together for me when I saw a beautiful, kind creature, who made me want to ask her to be mine right there and then. Alas, she was already promised to someone else, as was I, so that we only exchanged one look, but in this look—oh my—lay all the manliness and womanliness that was ever exchanged between two people. I told all this, or tried to tell, my best friend, but he only looked at me foolishly. I told my father, who beat me for something else. I told my mother, who tousled my hair and did not listen. Perhaps I’m not supposed to be with that girl. Perhaps we’re only mirrors to each other in which we seek ourselves. Or perhaps I’m dreaming and when I wake up, the world will be much simpler and straighter, and she won’t exist in it. Or perhaps she will be there, but I won’t, so that I’m the result of her imagination, an unattainable lover and magical mirror-man.
#58/100 Days 2011. Drawing by Taffimai.

July 16th 2011

7 notes |#

I observed our gardeners today. I’m impressed how different they are: Theodosius is methodical. He never seems to make a superfluous movement yet he’s always on the go. When he doesn’t pull out a weed or cut a twig, he sharpens a tool or ties branches together. In between he even finds time to shout orders at other, lower gardeners. Then there’s that other gardener, Beowulf. He’s Theodosius’ equal. But even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t take instruction willingly. Beowulf, faithful to his name, which is not his fault, unless we receive our names from God without knowing it, carries himself like a warrior: when he holds an axe, I expect him to throw it and hurl himself at a rose bush screaming. As a groundsman, Beowulf looks hopeless; he’ll play with any tool you give him. He stands around looking at this and that for long times and he doesn’t respond when you talk to him. When he finally gets to work, he sings loudly and works fast, but he has to, because he never likes to stay with the same task for long. Worst of all, he drives Theodosius mad, and I believe that he’s also bothered by Theodosius’ ways. But our large garden seems to thrive on their different tempers. Between Theo’s methods and Beo’s messiness, there’s the right word and the right hand at any time. They’re like twins, like the two sides of everything, an important message from nature itself for which I’m grateful.

#57/100 Days 2011. Illustration: Woodcut of peasants working in the herb garden.

Posted at 7:38pm and tagged with: 57, 100days2011, Gisela, garden, Theodosius, Beowulf,.

I observed our gardeners today. I’m impressed how different they are: Theodosius is methodical. He never seems to make a superfluous movement yet he’s always on the go. When he doesn’t pull out a weed or cut a twig, he sharpens a tool or ties branches together. In between he even finds time to shout orders at other, lower gardeners. Then there’s that other gardener, Beowulf. He’s Theodosius’ equal. But even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t take instruction willingly. Beowulf, faithful to his name, which is not his fault, unless we receive our names from God without knowing it, carries himself like a warrior: when he holds an axe, I expect him to throw it and hurl himself at a rose bush screaming. As a groundsman, Beowulf looks hopeless; he’ll play with any tool you give him. He stands around looking at this and that for long times and he doesn’t respond when you talk to him. When he finally gets to work, he sings loudly and works fast, but he has to, because he never likes to stay with the same task for long. Worst of all, he drives Theodosius mad, and I believe that he’s also bothered by Theodosius’ ways. But our large garden seems to thrive on their different tempers. Between Theo’s methods and Beo’s messiness, there’s the right word and the right hand at any time. They’re like twins, like the two sides of everything, an important message from nature itself for which I’m grateful.
#57/100 Days 2011. Illustration: Woodcut of peasants working in the herb garden.

July 12th 2011

6 notes |#

Everybody wants to live in a town now. It didn’t used to be this way, I think. Once everybody lived on the land. Then someone built a fence around his and his friends’ houses and locked the gate at night against wild animals, demons and strangers. Later, the fence turned into a wall. Uncle Thomas once told me about his first night behind city walls, when he was still a young boy. He said he felt caged. In town, you could only hear neighbors groan and married couples fart in unison. He said: “when you sleep outside the walls you can hear dragon wings flap in the wind. It’s true,” he said. Uncle Thomas lives in the forest now. He builds furniture that is bought by town folk. “City dwellers will think you’re thick if you’re not from there,” he said. “They even bury their dead within their walls, so that the soul can’t escape into the wild even after death. Isn’t that crazy?” I nodded. I want to be buried under an elm tree on a hill so that I can look out across a bit of land and see some city, too, because perhaps one day everyone will live behind walls. One must think of these things while there’s time, while there still are dragons in the air.

#53/100 Days 2011. Drawing by Taffimai: ”City — Party Time”.

Posted at 11:12pm and tagged with: 100days2011, 53, city, drawing, gisela, lucia, thomas, Taffimai,.

Everybody wants to live in a town now. It didn’t used to be this way, I think. Once everybody lived on the land. Then someone built a fence around his and his friends’ houses and locked the gate at night against wild animals, demons and strangers. Later, the fence turned into a wall. Uncle Thomas once told me about his first night behind city walls, when he was still a young boy. He said he felt caged. In town, you could only hear neighbors groan and married couples fart in unison. He said: “when you sleep outside the walls you can hear dragon wings flap in the wind. It’s true,” he said. Uncle Thomas lives in the forest now. He builds furniture that is bought by town folk. “City dwellers will think you’re thick if you’re not from there,” he said. “They even bury their dead within their walls, so that the soul can’t escape into the wild even after death. Isn’t that crazy?” I nodded. I want to be buried under an elm tree on a hill so that I can look out across a bit of land and see some city, too, because perhaps one day everyone will live behind walls. One must think of these things while there’s time, while there still are dragons in the air.
#53/100 Days 2011. Drawing by Taffimai: ”City — Party Time”.

July 10th 2011

9 notes |#

Today we remember our mother: the first one to see us as we were, who brought us (although the father caught us). We still are as she saw us, too, under all that slap and sham piled onto our faces ever since. But let’s not overthink the matter of mother, let’s just enjoy her as we remember her: she let her brown hair hang loose; she taught us to read; she showed us her favorite flower and uttered regret that it wasn’t scented; she sat by our bed when we were fevered, so that we still feel her cool hand on our forehead; she read to us with her slow, measured, deep voice; she smoked, full of remorse, blueish clouds forming an oracle around her head; she liked to cook and hated to clean and yet she did both; she loved too deeply; she traveled on her own if she had to; she was proud of her driving skills; she favored dark wood; she walked briskly; she carried herself with dignity, always. When she got old, in the end, we began to doubt the power of life itself. We held the wrinkles of her skin with its age spots between our fingers, and the skin wasn’t springy anymore. Mother looked at us then with her watery, sorrowing eyes. She ruefully twisted her rosary: we may safely assume that she felt concern for our future and some guilt over her neglect; there is always a future, always neglect. Do not worry, mother, we told her with a filial smile, for we had long understood that we must take her as she is and leave her as she once was. We knew that we were a piece of her and that she kept a piece of us. We ran our hands over her hair and our voices turned hoarse at the thought of death hanging over this gorgeous gray head.

#51/100 Days 2011. Illustration: unknown artist, drawing of mother, Paris 1978.

Posted at 11:53am and tagged with: Family, Mother, 100days2011, 1978, Paris, Lisa,.

Today we remember our mother: the first one to see us as we were, who brought us (although the father caught us). We still are as she saw us, too, under all that slap and sham piled onto our faces ever since. But let’s not overthink the matter of mother, let’s just enjoy her as we remember her: she let her brown hair hang loose; she taught us to read; she showed us her favorite flower and uttered regret that it wasn’t scented; she sat by our bed when we were fevered, so that we still feel her cool hand on our forehead; she read to us with her slow, measured, deep voice; she smoked, full of remorse, blueish clouds forming an oracle around her head; she liked to cook and hated to clean and yet she did both; she loved too deeply; she traveled on her own if she had to; she was proud of her driving skills; she favored dark wood; she walked briskly; she carried herself with dignity, always. When she got old, in the end, we began to doubt the power of life itself. We held the wrinkles of her skin with its age spots between our fingers, and the skin wasn’t springy anymore. Mother looked at us then with her watery, sorrowing eyes. She ruefully twisted her rosary: we may safely assume that she felt concern for our future and some guilt over her neglect; there is always a future, always neglect. Do not worry, mother, we told her with a filial smile, for we had long understood that we must take her as she is and leave her as she once was. We knew that we were a piece of her and that she kept a piece of us. We ran our hands over her hair and our voices turned hoarse at the thought of death hanging over this gorgeous gray head.
#51/100 Days 2011. Illustration: unknown artist, drawing of mother, Paris 1978.

June 18th 2011

2 notes |#

The Xanadu offer was a deal with the devil. It had first been extended to a pirate who was tired of pillaging. It consisted of three meetings with Lucifer: at each of them, a deeper and darker deed would be cut out of your soul like a steak, weighed, valued and wrapped for transport to Xanadu. This could be an atrocity you had committed; an injustice orchestrated by you; a misunderstanding or a lie not corrected; a love lost to neglect; an unfriendly glance at a child; a mean word hurled at your wife. In the end, once Old Nick was done with you, you’d feel lighter, leaner, lovelier: no longer did you reek of your sins. You smelt almost like an innocent new born or like a book of rules and regulations, or like a dogmatic scholar. But Eros had left you, too: with the other side of your coin gone, you had no more currency. You had to start afresh, building up meaning, one mistake after another, regaining weight, growing fat and foul-smelling again.

#29/100 Days 2011. Photo: drawing by Taffimai: “I Say – You Say.”

Posted at 8:04am and tagged with: 100days2011, 29, 18-06-2011, xanadu, devil, soul, weight,.

The Xanadu offer was a deal with the devil. It had first been extended to a pirate who was tired of pillaging. It consisted of three meetings with Lucifer: at each of them, a deeper and darker deed would be cut out of your soul like a steak, weighed, valued and wrapped for transport to Xanadu. This could be an atrocity you had committed; an injustice orchestrated by you; a misunderstanding or a lie not corrected; a love lost to neglect; an unfriendly glance at a child; a mean word hurled at your wife. In the end, once Old Nick was done with you, you’d feel lighter, leaner, lovelier: no longer did you reek of your sins. You smelt almost like an innocent new born or like a book of rules and regulations, or like a dogmatic scholar. But Eros had left you, too: with the other side of your coin gone, you had no more currency. You had to start afresh, building up meaning, one mistake after another, regaining weight, growing fat and foul-smelling again.
#29/100 Days 2011. Photo: drawing by Taffimai: “I Say – You Say.”

June 7th 2011

2 notes |#

The blind king longed to share his beautiful purple crown that was covered with the finest emeralds, with a lady. He knew that it wasn’t his blindness or the size of his kingdom (it was small) that stopped this from happening, but his grumpy nature and his moods. These moods could last for months and made every one around him miserable beyond measure. – And in the very moment when he changed his attitude, an adorable woman fell in love with him just like in a fairy tale and he forgot all about his purple emerald-studded headgear.

#18/100 Days 2011.

Posted at 11:29am and tagged with: 100days2011, mood, grumpy, king, crown, emeralds, lady, love, court,.