Too many humans are stubborn in their conviction that the objects they cannot obtain will assure them the happiness they have so long been trying to grasp. I cannot rid myself of this anger toward the materialist sickness that seems to linger like a virus. How do we find a cure, or a sensible way of living with it, without letting it pester our daily lives and the future that lies so frail and vulnerable at the tip of our fingers? I'm torn. Torn between the longing for another pair of sunglasses, or a cream that will eradicate the mishaps on my skin, and the release of these silly 'necessities'. But it's not so simple, to resist the objects that whet our senses and bring a hunger that cannot be quenched. We strive to develop, consider ourselves far advanced from the civilisations a few hundred years ago. Or the peoples in the third world. We are not so different. Our ways of communicating are constantly becoming more efficient and the pressure on us to constantly evolve, digress from our past is forcing us into a lonely corner where we fend off any competition and believe we can hide away in the luxurious apartment with the wide screen TV. In our nature, we're all the same. Our drives vary to some extent, but stripped of our 'treasures' not much sets us apart as human beings. We should learn, in the West to sometimes sit back, realise that not everything is about efficiency, try to spend valuable time with elders, the younger. It's not about laziness, but about QUALITY. The word and its concept seems to have disappeared from our lives and instead taken the superficial form in objects that we pay hefty fees for to convince ourselves that it is quality. I do not speak for a return to a society where there was lack of food, or where we give up the ambition to achieve anything. For after all, technology in itself is not such a bad idea. But seeing mothers on maternal leave, strolling with their prams, profusely shouting into the phone, makes you think... what about the baby in the pram, with its wide-open eyes curious to learn about the world. Does his mother ever give enough time to speak to him?

I need to vent...

Let's reminisce, because times are still what they were

There was another blog, a little while before. I read it again, today and remembered sitting in Maison de Bertaux, the French coffeehouse in Soho. And cigarettes. It was a while since I inhaled the smoke... So here are two old entries. For you.
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Observations

"The clock has just passed one in the afternoon. In the corner of the French cafe she sits snuggled up with her book. At the bottom of her cup is a small pool of cold coffee.

A young woman and her, presumably gay male friend, discuss their potential future. Their conversation is a low murmur; plans of a Yale scholarshpi, applications to university in America dominate their talk. While the man speaks, the woman draws a deep drag of her cigarette. She shuts her eyes, shifts her head upwards and clearly enjoys the thick cloud that escapes her lips.

Nina Smone plays at a low volume, barely audible.

Private lives, dreams intermingle in the quiet of the cafe spreading through the room like the slow lingering smoke. It touches the other guests if rarely noticed. It is about the quiet seclusion of friends, strangers who participate in other's lives unnoticed, if only for an hour.

The friend leave. All that remain is the dying cigarette haphazardly tossed into the dirty ashtray. Nina Simone continues her singing without interruption; "Try a Little Tenderness".

Another couple to her right speak in an unknown language, probably Japanese. She cannot be certain. All they allow for interpretation is their body language and tone of voice. They engage in the same quiet murmur as the departed strangers.
This is what Maison de Bertaux creates, the quiet whispers, sometimes intense discussions with an artistic edge.

To provide an escape from the masses, the standardisation of society. If only for an hour or two, the guests find solace in the place that rflects another era, a different dimension where discontent with the state translated into passionate discussions of uproar. The cafe digs into the corners of a person's thoughts, places ideas into a different light. Desire for life, for quality, and wisdome is at its peak. Books, paintings, music are the foods that satisfy the hungry appetites."
-- Written today in Maison de Bertaux.

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"It's about knowing you'll die" [The Guardian]

I thought I'd share some comments from the Guardian on smoking:

"While I was smoking I often pictured my lungs, just to torture myself; in my mind's eye, years of steady puffing had transformed them from cheery pink wet breathing baubles into a brittle pair of crackling, desicated paper bags, dangling side by side like twin toasted whilemeal pitta breads filled with tar and tumours. Little wonder I wanted to quit."

"Yes, if there is going to be a winner in all this smoking ban hoo-ha, surely it will be them, the little children, safe in the knowledge that their lungs will now be tar-free and gleaming as they galabant from meadow to meadow. Too bad that they will be too obese to walk."

"Smoking in art is an emblem of mortality... just because something kills you doesn't mean it isn't beautiful or at least "sublime"."

And so, I console myself with the illusion that by smoking my cigarette I am somehow connecting to the creative world. If someone dares smoke next to me on the street however, I will glare at them in the haughty manner of a non-smoker.

[Focus to the Music]

"I listen to the keys strike, the piano is rarely audible. It's my fault, I'm distracted. The mind wanders astray too swiftly. The faint chords create a dreamy softness, contours begin to fade and mix with neigbours. Soon the music is many distances away, it blurs. It happens, often, a certain illusionary presence. "Focus, focus", and I stray off again. Afterward, I don't distinctly remember the exact course of my thoughts. Where they began on the map, what their goal was. But the music is pleasing, it works as a chaotic guide. It decides the stops on the way, the jolts."

Listening to: Paolo Conte, Russ Columbo, Amelie soundtrack.

So There It Is...

A few weeks left - provided all papers get sorted and the family doesn't suddenly decide that I'm probably some very odd character - until I should be leaving for France. Dates haven't been specified yet, but such are the news. We had a long phone call last week, after which we decided that yes, this seems perfect! I'll be staying in a small village just 30 minutes from Geneva (but still in France). French lessons every week, oui oui... :)

Ah, but I forget! Saturday night Clara and I have a cosy pre party with shisha and Amarula (Kenyan equivalent of Baileys) at hers, then make our way to the official doctors party!! Nono, not dress up, but for Stockholm's med students. We managed to get invited by our old class mate. I was all pumped up (yes, you were as well Clara) for the prospect of meeting these very handsome future doctors. However, despite the quite good turnout of attractive will-be doctors, I did not manage to be swept off my feet by a single one of them. Imagine my disappointment :O It's just as well that I'm off to France...

SO, Sunday night (without my doctor), I manage to drag my brother off to the movie theatre to see "Ensemble, C'est Tout!", a French, cosy, romantic, little bit dark movie starring Audrey Tatou. It brought me back into the large-scarves-old-French-apartment-mode. Another must-see movie.

I must be off to skype Janie - think she might be pissed off I was writing this entry instead of speaking to her on msn... ;)