Christmas confusions

In the end, the Christmas best is the chance and the will to look into my wife's eyes.

One mind, ten faces

Christmas is here. I pray, I reach out to God.
But I read Joseph Campbell on the schizophrenia of religion.
The question of being a child before God, even though you may be 60. That is where churches seem to drive it all.
Where should you be?
There is a sense of autonomy that makes people wish to stare steadfast in the eyes of God. "See? I'm me!"
Yet this child, this Christmas.
So carols come in pretty, yes.
So the gifts, the giving, the kisses, yes.
So this question of the interior facets. The many faces. The provision of masks, of personae.
Who are you tonight? Whom are you with? A mask for each you.
Perhaps growth is finally to be one with all.
Finally, one person, not a child, a beggar, not a powerful me, before this God.
For God is taught so differently. Christmas has so many cards at play.
This God should be one. Always. Perhaps.
Perhaps I could always be one, the same. Not a thousand faces nor a thousand facets.
But the year is past. Time is today.
And you come to pass by this second.
Your second, my heart. Now.

Tools make

Some comitees search for unanimity on the future, in order to decree it fulfilled.
Other comitees decide on sharing tools in order that people work their fulfillment.
I know that appropiate tools may work.
I bet on tools that empower, like networking.
So stop discussions, reject attempts at defining every possible twist of words.
And decide on risking the sharing of tools.
Then wait and see. There just might be some happiness around the corner.
And there will be, of course, crime.
But all in all, you cannot control it all.
So risk, bet, and step aside to give a look.
In order. In empowerment. In a gust of freedom.

Lady at the gymn

Twenty minutes to go. Step up, step down, step up, no look, no glance. She´s curving her back. A bit of skin, a trap of lust, a silent flash of hair across her eyes. Step up, step down. Ten more to go. Heartbeats up, must slow rate. A charming sigh, a bend, a crushing of the knee against the floor. Step up, step down, I worry about my heart, just my heart in strain. No looks, no contact, she might learn. Just nine more to go. And there, she tilts, she is in blue, she's just up from bed, no false color on her eyelids, and there they are those charming wrinkles of life and wisdom. Step up, step down, just eight more to go. What would it be if it was just gymn and no lust? Step up, step down. She might notice I look. No look. She knows. I'm sure she feels my restraint. Just seven more, just five more, just no more, no more, no more. And yet.

Fernando Debesa

Dear Fernando, saw your death mask tonight. Clean face, after 95 full years. Openness, nervousness, long fingers, tremour in the way you heard and the way you gave your words forth. Suddenly, probably by night, you stepped aside and wrote, wrote, produced. In the morning the work was half done. More polish, more perfection, more depth coming from your conversations, from the way you looked at others, at me, at my generation, trying to grasp, to empathize, the glow of your eyes varying from wet to more shiny and then showing your passion for the wealth of life in every one. So today you died. Your books, the homage of your kind, the applause of those who do not believe you were anything but an artist, which you were, will probably carry your heart to heaven. Oh so peaceful you lied there, in the cold winter night, with loving faces around saying the Sorrowful Mysteries, finally the Fifth Mystery, the death of Christ. Our Father, Our Lady, this valley of sorrows, the future life in full. There you lied. Silent. And my prayers soothed you, or at least made you feel the meaning of those chats we had, those discovering chats when I was so presumptous as to believe I was teaching you something new. When you were showing me, really, how to listen and change, atune.

Innovation Journalism

I am in Stanford University. Today an Innovation Journalism seminar ends. See www.innovationjournalism.org. I'm probably the oldest guy around. It feels good, experience is a good thing. I have lived through most of the changes that are now having us wonder at how the future will be. I came here to understand, but I leave with less things clear and a bunch of new friends. From Sweden, Finland, Spain... We do not know how blogging will change the media. We do not know how money will be made in the communications industry. We know not how China and India will invade this Western dominated world. We do not know how South America will include or exclude itself from the affair. Sorry, no solutions. Yet.

Hindsight and Goethe

"Ye bring with you glad days and happy faces.

Ah, many dear, dear shades arise with you;

Like some old tale that Time but half erases,

First Love draws near to me and Friendship too."

Faust, Dedication.

Summer in the Southern Hemisphere. Time extended. Thoughts pervasive. Vacations.

One's own life, past, perhaps future.

Suddenly, breakfast with Goethe.

A stumble into this stanza.

A fast vision. Then, the shared autobiography, basically, a common experience made anew.

Death and industry

Astounding, Claire Marie White,
http://whitellama.blogspot.com, a British historian/journalist has invited the world to participate in a retreat conmemorating 12 years of the Rwanda massacre. Reading the history and research the initiative publishes in http://www.mdonkin.f2s.com/neveragain/index.php/Kivu_retreat I came upon the name Dominique Lemmonier, a French arms trader and his history. I then checked a Wiki discussion on the responsibilities of governments and private arms traders in French wikipedia where M. Lemmonier is mentioned. Finally, to my horror, I read that the Los Angeles, U.S.A. arms company Ducommun has acquired Miltec Corporation, one of the parties involved in providing the arms used in the genocide. So I checked who were the new arms dealers and how they saw themselves. A real encyclical letter is provided by the smiling CEO of Decommun, Joseph Berenato, in http://www.ducommun.com/ceo.html A taste of the world to come? How far away we are from these dealings in the common world!

After a blogger meeting...
A breakthrough. Never had been in one, since the times of BBS. Old times.
Loved to realize how all are anxious to communicate, to share, to give. For free.
I realize that private lives are not so shared; that not necessarily a blogger is an exhibitionist, though he may be. So I can be spontaneous, and careful. I can share and not expose myself... too much.
Loved to see the breaking of new worlds, something in the eyes. Loved to see how many more women there were. Why is this?

Fasceted lives

Being everyone to everybody, a pauline dictum, seems wrong. Carries you to "nicities", tensions, the stress of that smile in Chirac, the anger after an appropiate but not a true answer.
But who am I to react? The struggle to unify the social and the personal being seems urgent, more urgent in this creative, bombarded age. I will survive. The I will survive. Will change, but will survive. The trouble is finding the I, of keeping that stomach feeling in spite of the great stress of change, of varied intercourses, of the race behind the question "Did you know?".

Junction confusion.

Macworld this week has finished with this new horizon: all Intel. To those old Mac II fans this sounds weird. Just as today Nikon announced this digital only camera industry they want to become.
Old lovers of F 10 and Mac II feel their pillars crack.
Or at least, sink into the ocean depths as the remnants of an old civilization just when the new one is not at all well understood.
There is an emotion that goes with technologies. An emotion that must sink in as the new Apple become Intel driven.
So, to come to grips with these fleeting emotions.
That is learning.