So, I wrote the following at around 3:00am a few days ago, and I am not entirely sure what it means or what motivated me to write it. I am going to just cut and paste it. What do you make of it? Here goes:
Memory
That which makes us human. There is nothing quite like memory that lets you know you are alive. It is what allows us to survive. It is what holds us back from the unknown future. Descartes said "I think, therefore I am." I prefer, "I remember, therefore I am pretty sure I exist."
Truly, memory is living. Remembering the past is what governs every activity in our lives. Memory of what foods we can eat, what routine we follow, who are our friends, who are our family.
Love is an extension of memory. A mother loves her adult offspring because she remembers that child when he or she was an infant. She knows the child's experiences. She knows its memories. That is a powerful connection.
When I sit and think about my past relationships with girlfriends, with good friends, and old friends, I realize that, damn, that is my life. The thought! Ha! This is actually my life. It is governed by the people that I meet, but more importantly, how I remember them. What memories do I still have of them? I remember my first kiss. Most people do. That’s awesome. What a pivotal event, and it is etched forever in my memory. Yet, when I die, that memory will be lost. Nobody will know exactly what happened at the exact moment of my first kiss. That is kind of unsettling.
What will people remember you for? Where do you think you live in the memories of the people that surround you?
Wars are fought over memory. Some go on today because of it. Prof. Elukin, a professor of history, once said to me that he wishes that we did not always remember history. He said it would be helpful to have “historical amnesia” sometimes. Jews fighting Christians, French fighting Germans, etc. Sometimes it would help if we forgot the past.
How do we deal with that? That’s quite a weight to bear.
That's it. After re-reading it, I still don't quite know why I wrote it. But, heck, there it is!
-Matt
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
Shout Out and an Homage
First of all, a shout out to all of my daily blog checkers! To all the Pauls, Dans, Moms and Dads, and various other people who read the crap I put up on here. Thanks! If, after reading the disturbing stuff that I think about on a daily basis scares you and you don't like me anymore, I understand.
Otherwise, things are still rather slow in Munich. It won't pick up again until the day right before Oktoberfest. Hey, no problem. I like it when there aren't any damn tourists around. Tourists. Christ, even the word angers me. Who do they think they are! Going to another country just to pretend that they belong there. The nerve... wait a second....
The Fest is only about a week away, and, no joke, I am shaking in my boots I am so excited. The buzz surrounding this event has reached near mythic proportions in Western Civilization. Everybody has heard of it (even if they can't point to Germany on a map). My guess is that it is going to be exactly like I imagine it in my head: Lots of overweight Bavarians (and Americans, English, and Australians) are going to be joyfully frolicking about with oversized mugs of frothy beer, singing songs in their native tongue and attempting to sing the cooler songs in German. I will be sitting, in lederhosen, at a wooden table packed with friends, food, and farts.
When I tell you that there is truly nothing like a good German beer, I am not lying. Especially a freshly brewed beer... ahh, my toes are curling in glee. No joke, I just giggled like a school girl at the lunch table. For example, a few of us went to (in my opinion) the best and most traditional beer hall in Munich yesterday (it is connected to the brewery). Ordering a half liter of Augustiner beer (that's a "small" beer around here) I took my first sip.
Truly, a troupe of cherubs began to dance a jig betwixt mine ears. Their voices carried to the hills as they sang a chorus of joyous hymns in celebration of that divine brew which at that moment passed betwixt mine accepting lips. The contrast of the pearly white foam head and the golden yellow brew mingled harmoniously atop mine inviting tongue.
Fresh, brewed-on-site beer is unlike any other beverage. It is so flavourful (I like the British spelling. Truly, it is a bit more pleasing to the eye. Let us compare: 1. "What up dude? Yeah, that Big Mac was so flavorful!" 2. "Good morrow my liege! Ah yes, that cup of earl grey [my personal favorite] was truly flavourful indeed!" It is much more elegant. This just got me to thinking: If I could create the perfect culture by mixing what we already have on Earth, what would I pick? For example, the tenacity of Americanism with the wit of the English, the diet of the Japanese, the hardiness of the Russians, and the wine of the French. Done.) that I feel as if I could chew on the beer. Honestly, it must be savoured (again) with each sip.
Well, it is only 11:40 right now and already I am having a craving for a big ol' Schweinebraten mit zwei Knoedels (um, sort of like a pork steak in a dark beer sauce, with two, ahh, kind of potato and bread dumplings whose sole purpose is to sit triumphantly in your stomach like a brick in a bath tub and to absorb every last drop of the beer gravy). I shall restrain myself.
Until we meet again,
Mysteried
ps. That is so my pen-name from now on. Say it out loud. Get it! I need a freakin medal or something.
pps. For those of you who are still going, What the Hell?... it is "mysteried" or... "mister reed". That's me!
Otherwise, things are still rather slow in Munich. It won't pick up again until the day right before Oktoberfest. Hey, no problem. I like it when there aren't any damn tourists around. Tourists. Christ, even the word angers me. Who do they think they are! Going to another country just to pretend that they belong there. The nerve... wait a second....
The Fest is only about a week away, and, no joke, I am shaking in my boots I am so excited. The buzz surrounding this event has reached near mythic proportions in Western Civilization. Everybody has heard of it (even if they can't point to Germany on a map). My guess is that it is going to be exactly like I imagine it in my head: Lots of overweight Bavarians (and Americans, English, and Australians) are going to be joyfully frolicking about with oversized mugs of frothy beer, singing songs in their native tongue and attempting to sing the cooler songs in German. I will be sitting, in lederhosen, at a wooden table packed with friends, food, and farts.
When I tell you that there is truly nothing like a good German beer, I am not lying. Especially a freshly brewed beer... ahh, my toes are curling in glee. No joke, I just giggled like a school girl at the lunch table. For example, a few of us went to (in my opinion) the best and most traditional beer hall in Munich yesterday (it is connected to the brewery). Ordering a half liter of Augustiner beer (that's a "small" beer around here) I took my first sip.
Truly, a troupe of cherubs began to dance a jig betwixt mine ears. Their voices carried to the hills as they sang a chorus of joyous hymns in celebration of that divine brew which at that moment passed betwixt mine accepting lips. The contrast of the pearly white foam head and the golden yellow brew mingled harmoniously atop mine inviting tongue.
Fresh, brewed-on-site beer is unlike any other beverage. It is so flavourful (I like the British spelling. Truly, it is a bit more pleasing to the eye. Let us compare: 1. "What up dude? Yeah, that Big Mac was so flavorful!" 2. "Good morrow my liege! Ah yes, that cup of earl grey [my personal favorite] was truly flavourful indeed!" It is much more elegant. This just got me to thinking: If I could create the perfect culture by mixing what we already have on Earth, what would I pick? For example, the tenacity of Americanism with the wit of the English, the diet of the Japanese, the hardiness of the Russians, and the wine of the French. Done.) that I feel as if I could chew on the beer. Honestly, it must be savoured (again) with each sip.
Well, it is only 11:40 right now and already I am having a craving for a big ol' Schweinebraten mit zwei Knoedels (um, sort of like a pork steak in a dark beer sauce, with two, ahh, kind of potato and bread dumplings whose sole purpose is to sit triumphantly in your stomach like a brick in a bath tub and to absorb every last drop of the beer gravy). I shall restrain myself.
Until we meet again,
Mysteried
ps. That is so my pen-name from now on. Say it out loud. Get it! I need a freakin medal or something.
pps. For those of you who are still going, What the Hell?... it is "mysteried" or... "mister reed". That's me!
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The New West
Airports are like the Wild West of modernity. They are the crossroads where everybody is a stranger. Different languages proliferate. There is a definite vibe in airports.
Myself, I love them. I pretend that, in fact, I am a mysterious loner who just arrived from Dodge City. Quietly, I smoke a cigarillo in the corner (we are pretending, remember). I nod my head to the waitress. Yeah, I'll have another beer. It's what keeps me goin. Keeps me sane. Slowly I place my right hand at my side and feel the cold grip of my colt revolver. My gun. My savior. My protector. My god.
I throw a ten on the table, stand up, adjust myself, and look for my way outta this place. Gate A7. Just follow the signs. Heck. I wish it was that easy.
After a short walk, I come upon a border outpost. They check my papers (the bastards), but they ain't got shit on me. I throw them a quick look, just to make sure they aren't ready to start something with me. God help em. They have no idea who I am or what I am capable of. I pity them.
Finally, we jump into reality and the Wild West is left behind at the gates, only to be replaced by the sterility of the waiting areas. Lots of neutal colors and chairs that are arranged as efficiently as possible. Nobody really talks. It would disturb the balance. Instead, we drink free coffee out of thimbles and audibly shuffle the latest issue of The Financial Times. *Ding dong ding* The chimes announce that we are now boarding the plane from Munich to Zurich. Interestingly enough, the announcement is in English. We are travelling from Germany to Switzerland, yet the announcements are in English. That was kind of weird. Same thing happens on the plane.
The flight attendants entertain me. I love how they have to treat the passengers like children. When a passenger raises his or her hand to ask a question, the flight attendant comes by, kneels down to be at eye level (if it is a woman, she tactfully keeps her legs together while kneeling and places her hands between her knees, just to make sure), and speaks in a high pitched voice. Her hair is pulled back. I guess that makes it harder to grab when somebody throws a tantrum. Hell, they even give out juice and cookies! I want a Winnie the Pooh coloring book, dammit!
During the "Safety Instructions" (sort of like a fire drill), I shot the stewardess a smile. A "This is pretty funny. You must get a kick out of this" smile. She understood fully and returned with a smile of her own. We bonded.
I am rather sleepy. To be continued....
-Matt
Myself, I love them. I pretend that, in fact, I am a mysterious loner who just arrived from Dodge City. Quietly, I smoke a cigarillo in the corner (we are pretending, remember). I nod my head to the waitress. Yeah, I'll have another beer. It's what keeps me goin. Keeps me sane. Slowly I place my right hand at my side and feel the cold grip of my colt revolver. My gun. My savior. My protector. My god.
I throw a ten on the table, stand up, adjust myself, and look for my way outta this place. Gate A7. Just follow the signs. Heck. I wish it was that easy.
After a short walk, I come upon a border outpost. They check my papers (the bastards), but they ain't got shit on me. I throw them a quick look, just to make sure they aren't ready to start something with me. God help em. They have no idea who I am or what I am capable of. I pity them.
Finally, we jump into reality and the Wild West is left behind at the gates, only to be replaced by the sterility of the waiting areas. Lots of neutal colors and chairs that are arranged as efficiently as possible. Nobody really talks. It would disturb the balance. Instead, we drink free coffee out of thimbles and audibly shuffle the latest issue of The Financial Times. *Ding dong ding* The chimes announce that we are now boarding the plane from Munich to Zurich. Interestingly enough, the announcement is in English. We are travelling from Germany to Switzerland, yet the announcements are in English. That was kind of weird. Same thing happens on the plane.
The flight attendants entertain me. I love how they have to treat the passengers like children. When a passenger raises his or her hand to ask a question, the flight attendant comes by, kneels down to be at eye level (if it is a woman, she tactfully keeps her legs together while kneeling and places her hands between her knees, just to make sure), and speaks in a high pitched voice. Her hair is pulled back. I guess that makes it harder to grab when somebody throws a tantrum. Hell, they even give out juice and cookies! I want a Winnie the Pooh coloring book, dammit!
During the "Safety Instructions" (sort of like a fire drill), I shot the stewardess a smile. A "This is pretty funny. You must get a kick out of this" smile. She understood fully and returned with a smile of her own. We bonded.
I am rather sleepy. To be continued....
-Matt
Sunday, September 9, 2007
LOST in Switzerland
Hey everybody, I am alive and well over in our neutral friends to the east, Switzerland. I am here visiting my cousin April, husband Carsten and baby Vivian (though not quite a baby anymore...). The plane ride over here was interesting. You see, I have been watching, religiously, the first season of LOST on DVD and have become a bit obsessive about it. Naturally, when I boarded my plane my first thought was "who am I going to get stranded on a desert island with?"
Lets look around: There is a priest in one of the first rows. Thank God (literally).
Who else? Scanning the plane, I cast my eyes to the guy sitting next to me. Oh man, its "the black guy". In typical Hollywood fashion, this guy has worked his ways up from living in a broken home in poverty stricken Oakland to a successful law career located by the blinding lights of Rodeo Drive. I need to meet this guy. Too bad. He only speaks German. So much for the Oakland story line.
How could my TV series be complete without a foxy and mysterious female lead? Luckily, both of the flight attendants were more than suitable. Can anybody smell Love Triangle! I hope not, because I dont know what that smells like. Regardless, they were hot and I was intrigued. This is perfect.
Across from me is the jaded and slightly grumpy elderly guy in the tweed coat. He had big ears. They were huge. Comedy is in the air.
And emerging from the inner depths of my imagination, we find ourselves back in reality and the continuation of my blog post...
I have not posted in a week or so due to this being a crazy time. My initial worry was that once I left Germany, I might not be able to get back in because my visa is expired (90 days in the EU and I have been here for 93 or so). Though the promise of having a cool "Let me tell you how I got deported" story was enticing, I decided against it and pursued legal measures to ensure my stay in Germany is not my last. After an hour in the "Foreigners Office" I am officially allowed to stay in Germany until the end of the month. Famous last words.... lets see if I make it back in one peice.
Otherwise, a bit of good news. The owner of the company (who is 28 and from Greenwich, CT) came on one of my tours incognito (I played stupid. I knew he was on my tour, but pretended I didnt know who he was) and enjoyed himself thoroughly. After a coffee break with him (cappoccino, naturally), he revealed that he wants me to stick with the company and train to become a City Manager. Think about it! I could be the proud owner of a capitalized title! City Manager. That sounds official. What is after City Manager? I assume "Lieutenant Commander".
Anyway, therefore I get to go back to Germany in November, except this time to Berlin. I will spend a month in Berlin, giving tours, rocking out, and learning how to become a "City Manager". After that, a few months in Paris as Co City Manager, then off to Madrid (probably) as the real deal City Manager. We shall see what happens.
Well, dinner is nearly ready. I will post again on Tuesday.
Cheers,
Matt
Lets look around: There is a priest in one of the first rows. Thank God (literally).
Who else? Scanning the plane, I cast my eyes to the guy sitting next to me. Oh man, its "the black guy". In typical Hollywood fashion, this guy has worked his ways up from living in a broken home in poverty stricken Oakland to a successful law career located by the blinding lights of Rodeo Drive. I need to meet this guy. Too bad. He only speaks German. So much for the Oakland story line.
How could my TV series be complete without a foxy and mysterious female lead? Luckily, both of the flight attendants were more than suitable. Can anybody smell Love Triangle! I hope not, because I dont know what that smells like. Regardless, they were hot and I was intrigued. This is perfect.
Across from me is the jaded and slightly grumpy elderly guy in the tweed coat. He had big ears. They were huge. Comedy is in the air.
And emerging from the inner depths of my imagination, we find ourselves back in reality and the continuation of my blog post...
I have not posted in a week or so due to this being a crazy time. My initial worry was that once I left Germany, I might not be able to get back in because my visa is expired (90 days in the EU and I have been here for 93 or so). Though the promise of having a cool "Let me tell you how I got deported" story was enticing, I decided against it and pursued legal measures to ensure my stay in Germany is not my last. After an hour in the "Foreigners Office" I am officially allowed to stay in Germany until the end of the month. Famous last words.... lets see if I make it back in one peice.
Otherwise, a bit of good news. The owner of the company (who is 28 and from Greenwich, CT) came on one of my tours incognito (I played stupid. I knew he was on my tour, but pretended I didnt know who he was) and enjoyed himself thoroughly. After a coffee break with him (cappoccino, naturally), he revealed that he wants me to stick with the company and train to become a City Manager. Think about it! I could be the proud owner of a capitalized title! City Manager. That sounds official. What is after City Manager? I assume "Lieutenant Commander".
Anyway, therefore I get to go back to Germany in November, except this time to Berlin. I will spend a month in Berlin, giving tours, rocking out, and learning how to become a "City Manager". After that, a few months in Paris as Co City Manager, then off to Madrid (probably) as the real deal City Manager. We shall see what happens.
Well, dinner is nearly ready. I will post again on Tuesday.
Cheers,
Matt
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Lesson Remembered
I just remembered an important lesson that the guy sitting next to me on the plane from JFK to Dublin airport taught me:
Nothing is more important in life than your own health. Your health is more important than your family, friends... everything.
His rational was that if you do not take care of yourself, you will eventually be a burden on your family, thereby hurting them. That would be terrible. Therefore, worry about your own health, so that you may help/serve the ones you love. If that isn't motivating to eat healthy, I don't know what is!
-Matt
Nothing is more important in life than your own health. Your health is more important than your family, friends... everything.
His rational was that if you do not take care of yourself, you will eventually be a burden on your family, thereby hurting them. That would be terrible. Therefore, worry about your own health, so that you may help/serve the ones you love. If that isn't motivating to eat healthy, I don't know what is!
-Matt
Thursday, August 30, 2007
"I Think, therefore I am Crazy."
When did it become weird to stop and think to oneself? I mean, many times in the course of a day, I will be walking down the road and suddenly realize that I have to make a crucial decision. For example, where do I want to go for lunch? I can go either to A or to B, but they are in opposite directions. A dilemma arises....
I feel like an idiot when I have to stop and think. I can feel the stares of the judging public piercing my sides. "Susie! Look at that guy over there. What the hell is he doing? He just stopped, rather abruptly, in the middle of his walk down the road and is now just staring at the ground! Is he going to puke? Is he planning mischief? A heart attack? No, he must be insane, drunk, or homeless."
It is not possible today for somebody to stop dead in their tracks, put on their best thinking-pose, and just.... think.
Standing in the middle of the pavement, staring into space and lightly stroking my facial hair a la Confucius fingering his beard or the evil top-hatted villain of yore with a fair maiden tied to the train tracks twisting his handlebar mustache (I prefer to tug rather gently on the small bit of hair underneath most men's [and some elderly Italian women's] lower lip: known in the trendy world as "the soul patch." Nothing says, "that man is a genuine Hemingway-reading intellectual!" like twiddling a fine piece of well-groomed facial hair), makes me look like a complete psycho to the majority of people. I might as well be drooling (although, very often, people are not caught in the act of drooling. Residual drool is much more common).
Again, I ask, why do you look crazy if you stop and think? Whenever this unfortunate event arises, I find that I actually try to cover up the fact that I am thinking to myself. A preferred cover is for me to whip out my cellphone and blankly stare at the empty screen. "Oh, that guy is just checking the time" or "Oh, that fine, upstanding young gentleman is simply checking a missed call."
That's what they think. But in reality, I am thinking "Am I in the mood for sushi or Thai?" The decision I make dictates the direction that I must walk: therefore, I must stop where I am, lest I continue drifting in the completely wrong direction. There is no way around it! I must stop... think... and scatter the frightened children around me.
Oh, another favorite is the "I'm obviously waiting for somebody" pose. Fumbling hands, investigatory and exploratory glances, impatient clock checking. Works every time.
Then again, maybe there are loads of people out there thinking to themselves. Waiting at bus stops and such. They are fooling me!
Or maybe that's wrong. Maybe people don't have to think anymore. Wherever they walk, they shall continue in that direction until they come upon something that catches their fancy.
Send help immediately,
Matt
I feel like an idiot when I have to stop and think. I can feel the stares of the judging public piercing my sides. "Susie! Look at that guy over there. What the hell is he doing? He just stopped, rather abruptly, in the middle of his walk down the road and is now just staring at the ground! Is he going to puke? Is he planning mischief? A heart attack? No, he must be insane, drunk, or homeless."
It is not possible today for somebody to stop dead in their tracks, put on their best thinking-pose, and just.... think.
Standing in the middle of the pavement, staring into space and lightly stroking my facial hair a la Confucius fingering his beard or the evil top-hatted villain of yore with a fair maiden tied to the train tracks twisting his handlebar mustache (I prefer to tug rather gently on the small bit of hair underneath most men's [and some elderly Italian women's] lower lip: known in the trendy world as "the soul patch." Nothing says, "that man is a genuine Hemingway-reading intellectual!" like twiddling a fine piece of well-groomed facial hair), makes me look like a complete psycho to the majority of people. I might as well be drooling (although, very often, people are not caught in the act of drooling. Residual drool is much more common).
Again, I ask, why do you look crazy if you stop and think? Whenever this unfortunate event arises, I find that I actually try to cover up the fact that I am thinking to myself. A preferred cover is for me to whip out my cellphone and blankly stare at the empty screen. "Oh, that guy is just checking the time" or "Oh, that fine, upstanding young gentleman is simply checking a missed call."
That's what they think. But in reality, I am thinking "Am I in the mood for sushi or Thai?" The decision I make dictates the direction that I must walk: therefore, I must stop where I am, lest I continue drifting in the completely wrong direction. There is no way around it! I must stop... think... and scatter the frightened children around me.
Oh, another favorite is the "I'm obviously waiting for somebody" pose. Fumbling hands, investigatory and exploratory glances, impatient clock checking. Works every time.
Then again, maybe there are loads of people out there thinking to themselves. Waiting at bus stops and such. They are fooling me!
Or maybe that's wrong. Maybe people don't have to think anymore. Wherever they walk, they shall continue in that direction until they come upon something that catches their fancy.
Send help immediately,
Matt
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)