I have read somewhere a while ago about cells constituting a human body. Their life span lasts mostly from few seconds to months, depending on the kind. The longest ones live for around 7 years. It means that every 7 years we are completely regenerated: there is nothing left on physical plane from me living in 1999; not a single cell. I wonder how do we record our memories and how cells do pass recorded information from generation to generation… It looks like I already used to be 4 times, and about to finish my fifth cycle. Writing here is a sure way to back up myself in a case if something will go wrong, say, in a case of memory loss. So I decided to be honest, as ultimate memory loss anyway is just no more than 7 or 8 cycles away (keeping in mind what I’m a smoker, probably a half of that).
I spent most of my life trying to break out frames of convenience and certainty. My life was a constant escape. As I tried to live faster then my memories, I tried to run away from myself; cut off everything that hold ego together. To accept anything for given meant for me to accept self defeat. As I didn’t want to have compromises, I didn’t want to have anything in common with myself even a day ago. Head on I tried to hack into the future; no matter smash my head or break through I wanted to go as far as I could. I shed empty shells of my identity in process as a tree sheds leaves in the wind. Wind is a great allegory of time.
I didn’t see or rather didn’t care about danger of living like that then. Changing lives, names, places, occupations, friends, interests… you name it.
I lost myself. I don’t know anymore who I am, or who I was meant to be. It’s like a simultaneous chess game. Once I had an experience of it, playing with a chess grandmaster. He played 30 games the same time; walking up and down the lane of chess tables. I was just a somebody behind one of the boards. Now imagine yourself in his place, with no opponents on another side. You play this game on 30 boards with yourself; and these are different games with different sets of rules, sometimes rules you are not aware of. Some of them I managed to finish, some barely started.
Continue reading ‘Stockholm syndrome’
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Memory ….is such a fragile thing…Longer we have come to the present moment, thinner the line of the memory became….then I am not even sure if it happened in reality, or just i was dreaming about it…or my brain has manipulated me conveniently…
my first memory….is just sounds and pictures….i can see only the old wooden framed window. and there is the noise that old window makes. I guess it was in winter. there are some traces of snow on the window. then cracks and sounds.
this is the earliest memory I could remember. I guess I was not even 2 years old since my parents moved to newly renovated house by the time I reached three years old.
But is it true that i was living in such a place???…not sure anymore….or do i really have this memory?…Or my mother talked about it and my brain took as my memory???? dont know….
5th year of me staying in London, my father finally decided to visit me there. Then one of the sightseeing days, I took him to the British Museum which was refurbished recently at that time. As soon as he entered the library which was designed in a circle with full of collective valuable books, he said in amazement.
“This is the place I dreamt when I was a boy! This is the place!.I was only 6 years old when I had this dream. But I still remember, and time to time I was thinking where it could be! This is the place. and This is the reason. ”
It cant be just the manipulated memory since the plan of the library was not even planned when he was young. And the layout of the library is not the usual one.
Since that day every morning (till him leaving London), he walked from the hotel at Baker street to the British Museum. (if you know the map of London, its not a short walk, not even pleasant!!)…I wonder what he has been thinking about with these walks…
Is there any strong connection between my father and the library? I wonder if it was just a key for him to trace back to his memory as a boy???
Mayuko
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…about those days when I wanted nothing more than to be a concert pianist playing fifty concerts a year around the world…..
I was fourteen. And, some how playing those virtuosic pieces with all the sentimentality that was brimming out of my teenage self, I thought I knew what I wanted to do. I played those pieces composed centuries, decades ago with all my heart and passion, like no one else had. I played it my way. I brought listeners to tears. And a couple days after I turned sixteen, I left for London to music school. I thought that my life was made.
Technique, technique, technique… The physical-ness of being a musician. It really is identical to that of being a sportsman. Without the genes that guarantees height for a basketball-er, or the thighs and long calves of that of a sprinter, it doesn’t matter if you know at the bottom of your heart that your soul was meant to do what your body couldn’t do. I practiced nine hours a day, but I never had the fingers of some of my school mates who could rattle Liszt, Rachmaninoff, Stravinsky without needing to practice more than an hour a day. After three years of doing all I could, literally breaking myself on the wall each day and night, I knew that what my heart sang and what I could do well were drastically different. I ended up in university majoring in Economics, some thing I could do with my eyes closed. I received top honors, but yet it was and still is a huge struggle to come to terms with the fact that what I love and excel in are two different things.
I treated myself to an iPod video today. As I was downloading music into this new iPod, I came across some of my old recordings of more than thirteen years. My heart was all there. It is another reality. Perhaps one that I have had hidden for too long but yet I am unable to revive. That memory is the silent part of my existence that will only be known to me and only me.
Bunny
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Life is full of mysteries. I’m saying that because today I woke up, opened my eyes and started to wonder if there’s a particular reason for me being in this place now. It is a mystery for me really how did I end up in Bangkok and how is it I’m teaching at university. You could say it happenned because of the choices I made. Yes and not. It is not that I am a fatalist and believe it’s all was predestined. It’s just what sometimes I think the selection of choices we have is rather odd. Before I will explain what I mean, I’d like to share my belief. I think all human beings, realize or not, have some abnormal abilities or supernatural powers. Here are 2 examples of people with such abilities I have met in my life. You can say this pick is random. I guess it is not, as both cases made me wonder and reflect on for a long time. They left a trace. Random doesn’t exist anyway. It is something what is temporary out of our mindframe.
Once I worked as a barman in a pub for a couple of months. Probably I could stay there a few weeks more, if I wouldn’t pick up a fight on a nearly daily basis (himuliating others, in a way, is a habitual English entertainment. Having a Russian barman in their local pub, est. circa 1780 definetely was challenging tolerance of many of its patrons: it shook the picture of their world in a way). Most of the customers were regulars. It was a traditional English local pub. It means what you see the same people every day and hear the same jokes from them daily. You get used to them very quickly. “Regular” is somebody who doesn’t tell you what they want. They will tell you: “my drink, please”, as they come in and drink the same thing every bloody day. I knew most of the regulars not by names, but by their drinks. One of them was an old chap whose drink was bitter. He will be in every evening after work, will take 2 pints of Tetley’s and sit somewhere in a corner hardly saying a word to anybody, like a piece of furniture. He was there Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Saturday and Sunday were not exception apart he would come early afternoon and will have his 2 pints two times. Once I was asked by another regular, “Bacardi and a splash of Cola, no ice please”, for something like a program for horse racing. I did not have a clue there it was kept. So that chap from the corner told me to look under a pile of boxes with pool chalks and old phone books on a top shelf. I extracted what was required from under a layer of dust the size of level of snow in the middle of winter somewhere in Siberia. I was surprised and asked him how he knew. He answered: - I am coming to this pub every day for over 40 years. I was so shocked what couldn’t find anything better than ask: - Why? - Because I changed it. I lived before in Surrey, - explained he.
Continue reading ‘Life as supernatural ability’
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