God! Where do I start?
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Mockoblog is BACK – now with an algonaissance touch!
Monday, June 17th, 20191st Time I Write about Trump
Wednesday, November 9th, 2016I did not want to mention anything about this during the US presidential campaign because the opinion of most of my contacts was against what I was thinking. Trump. He reminds me of Reagan, but I could be so wrong. This one also has to deliver. And this is only possible through unity both inside his country and in the way he conducts foreign policy. The World is changing and common dichotomous concepts like “living in a dictatorship vs living in a democracy” will be replaced by by complex pan-global movements like “acting as a planet while acting as a nation / a religion / a tribe / a group of interests and expanding in a way that is positive for all”. If Trump fails, he could become a new type of Hitler or Stalin or Pol Pot – yet with a difference: he could be the one who has the real power to destroy everything. If he succeeds, we’ll all be better off on Earth and we could send next generations out there, in the future, taking mankind to a new stage, colonising worlds. Can Trump deliver? No, he can’t. But, especially with full control of the Congress, he could be instrumental in setting-up a platform top start with. The future will look after the rest. So, I welcome Trump not for what he is, but for what he could be the trigger of.
Bucharest (Me)
Monday, September 8th, 2014ME
I left my home in Christchurch, NZ, on Monday (Romanian time) only to arrive in Bucharest some four confusing days later… I’ve been through steamy Singapore and foggy Frankfurt and at the end of the beginning of my journey I found the city I used to call mine.
Bucharest is like nothing I could explain. It has evolved outside politics and fears, yet it is governed by them. Its ugliness, somewhat embedded in my hardware through people and their actions, has now become beauty in my fading random access memory, which makes room for nothing less than positive reasons for who I am and what I foolishly think I choose to do. I find myself a spec of colour in this rainbow of shades and tints, I feel I belong here and this place doesn’t seem to reject me but keeps on sending me hints about who I might actually be. And it subtly tells me to stay away within.
I don’t love Bucharest. I just feel part of it. I remember uneven stones in the pavement and I know they’ve been there from before my time as a conscript communist soldier, a rowdy student, a lover of pubs, arts and women (not necessarily in that order), a first-time father, a capricious journalist and a never accomplished writer-to-be. I know those pavers can’t possibly be uniquely mine but yet they are!
When I walk down mental streets I find no surprise. Young lovers still hold hands and kiss each other. Music still streams from behind shabby fences into the open World. Transcendent perennially remains the same impossible yet so utterly present ‘belongingness’ feel of Bucharest. Once my city, always everyone’s hometown. The less you are part of it, the more it makes you fell it is part of you.
I hate to love this place. It contradicts me and my personal choices and I must reject it for it was its people who made me leave it for good (?) and it was I who took the step out of it and hoped to forget Bucharest all together.
The beauty in the ugliness is style. And Bucharest has it. People just walk by. Style stays. There is no meaning, no logic in this.
I’ll catch a train out of this town tomorrow and I’ll forget all about this attempt to write a story set in Bucharest. That story seems to have been written already many times over and, although it is about so many of you, people who for sure live here and people who certainly don’t, I modestly volunteer the working title for this never started but purely finished tale of understanding what can’t be understood – the title would be ME!
(Bucharest, 07/08/14)