Other books written by George Manus:
THOUGHTS, English TANKER, Norwegian
REFLECTIONS I, English
REFLEKSJONER I, Norwegian
REFLECTIONS II, English
REFLEKSJONER II, Norwegian
REFLECTIONS III, English
REFLEKSJONER III, Norwegian
A WOMAN’S MANY MIGRATIONS, English
EN KVINNES MANGE FLYTTINGER, Norwegian
STORIES & THOUGHTS I, English
HISTORIER & TANKER I, Norwegian
INNOVATIONS AND CREATIONS, English
MAX MANUS FIRMAENE - 70 år i kommunikasjon, Norwegian
WORDS FOR THE ROAD ORD MED PÅ VEIEN I English - Norwegian
WORDS FOR THE ROAD ORD MED PÅ VEIEN II English - Norwegian
WORDS FOR THE ROAD ORD MED PÅ VEIEN III English - Norwegian
WORDS FOR THE ROAD ORD MED PÅ VEIEN IV English - Norwegian
WORDS FOR THE ROAD ORD MED PÅ VEIEN V English - Norwegian
WORDS FOR THE ROAD ORD MED PÅ VEIEN VI English - Norwegian
WORDS FOR THE ROAD ORD MED PÅ VEIEN VII English - Norwegian
WORDS FOR THE ROAD ORD MED PÅ VEIEN VIII English - Norwegian
WORDS FOR THE ROAD ORD MED PÅ VEIEN IX English - Norwegian
WORDS FOR THE ROAD ORD MED PÅ VEIEN X English - Norwegian
FOOD for THOUGHT - 1001 Short reflections, English
TANKEVEKKERE - 1001 korte refleksjoner, Norwegian
You are heartedly welcome to quote from this book, respecting the copyright.
ISBN: 9788743044741
Author: George Manus
Copyright: George Manus
Design and layout: Ole Praud
Print:
Books on Demand GmbH, Norderstedt, Germany
Editor:
Books on Demand GmbH, Copenhagen, Denmark, www.BoD.dk
e-mail: george.manus@mminnovation.no
Homepage - Shop: www.maxmanusinnovation.com
ISBN: 9788743021018
These 217 REFLECTIONS. I have dedicated to my daughter Nicoline, 1963 - 1990.
Here I have collected the reflections from four of my previous books:
Reflections I - II - III and “Thoughts”.
In order to get a correct time perspective, it is important for the reader to see the time indication for when the respective reflections were written, where it is mentioned.
I have always had it clear to me that I generally have a wordy form of expression.
For as long as I can remember, I have always used more words than may be necessary, as a reassurance that I am perceived with my message.
Possibly it comes from my simpler form of dyslexia in childhood and adolescence, for which it should be compensated, I do not know.
What I would otherwise note is that the episodes often happened a very long time ago, and that I can therefore not guarantee that all details and time indications are correct.
They are presented as I remembered them, are at the mercy of my state of mind when they were written and are in no way tenable references beyond my perception at the time.
A major part of the reflections were put on paper in the period 1989 to 97. That does not apply to “Thoughts”, which was written, one every day, the 51 first days of 2001.
At the time, it was a great therapy for me to have stored thoughts, reflections and stories turned into words an put on paper.
The majority was spontaneously dictated on my Pocket Memo. From there to the paper via two index fingers on the PC keyboard, while the Pocket Memo was played, manoeuvred in the right hand.
Only now, within the last 10 years, have I had the time and inspiration to write the rest, so that it now become a total of 217.
The reflection “Jealousy”, I wrote in 2012. The introduction starts like this:
“It is now about fifteen years since my last reflection was put on paper.
This and those that follow, as opposed to first being dictated, are written directly on the PC.”
So what was the purpose of writing these reflections?
The answer will probably be, as for my previous texts, that I primarily write to and for myself, but it will of course be a bonus if others also find joy in what I tell.
To give the reader some more personal background material, I have chosen to end the book with an ego lecture I gave at my Rotary Club in 1987, “No future without a past”.
I thank Anne Schild for her help with the language, as well as my friend Ole Praud for valuable consulting work.
For further information visit my homepage/shop:
www.maxmanusinnovation.com
The South of Spain
April 2022
George Manus
george.manus@mminnovation.no
“Life is not what has happened, but what you remember, and the way you remember it.”
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
You my daughter, were the very incarnation of ascension,
such were you born, never to give in.
In midst of battle when we were tempted to desert
you were the one who showed surplus energy to console.
Your tombstone - not processed by hand of man
- is a token of something powerful and lovely
and points towards such light which leads us on
linking us eternally to you.
We shall never get the answer why.
Such is Life. Uncertainty generates fear.
We look back at you, my daughter, and your sad destiny
and realize we have infinitely more to learn!
We all live by borrowing, such is common knowledge.
Let us thus meditate that saying in all humility.
Mourning poem written for the urn reduction of my eldest daughter1990
, retold in English by my brother Max Mikael.
G.M.
11-12-13
Accusations
Advertising
Ambitions
Application
Associations
Attack is the best defence
Autumn
Behind the Curtain
Birdsong
Bird watcher
Birthday
Block
Blood pressure
Bog Hill
Bomberos
Buying House
Capacity utilization and insidious development
CD carousel
Change
China
Cigar
Claim for Compensation
Communication
Compromise
Concentration and Focus
Confidence (The grumpy one)
Conscience I
Conscience II
Consciousness - Unconsciousness
Consequences
Contact
Curiosity
Daily planning
Dependence
Design
Details
Detour
Does it really matter?
Electricity
Electronic Banking
E-Mail:
Evening paper
Experience
Fanaticism
Favourite Dream
Feeling of Guilt
Feelings
Fiesta
Ford Fiesta
From the Point of view of a Golf Ball
Full House
George Manus
Golf Academy
Grandfather
Green fee
Happiness
Have I also become that way?
History
Hope
Human Development
Hyundai Santa Fe
Icon
ID number
Ignorance
Imagination and Creativity
Imagination and Product Development
In all Honesty
Inauguration
Inspiration
In the middle of my professionally active life
Intuition
Jealousy
Junta de Compensacion
Kidnapping in Sweden
La Envia
Laughter
Life
Light and Shadow
Looking out for number one
Looking out for number one (version 2)
Love
Lucainena
Lucky Number
Memory
Mountaineering
Mr. No
Much Ado about Nothing
My A4 Sheet:
My Home is my Castle
My “old” new PC
Nature picture
Negligence
Nicolas’ Confirmation Speech
No Future without a Past
Occurrence
On the Way from
On the Way to
Openness
Opinions
Order
Oscar’s Confirmation Speech
Physician Control
Pocket Memo
Poem of Joy
Prestige
Pride
Prostitution
Rebajas
Reflex
Reflexology
Regret
Relaxation
Revolution
Rigoletto
Rotary Club
San Roque
Secret
Seen from the Information Board
Seen towards the Information Board
Senility
Sensitive Hands
Sensitivity
Short Stories
Snowboard course
Snow-filled Norway
Speeding ticket
Spontaneity
Stopping smoking
Stories from Landøya
Stubbornness
St. Valentine
Summer Job
Survivor
Swallows Nests
Tennis Tournament
That’s what I’ve always said
The Architect I
The Architect II
The Auto Repair Shop
The Barn
The Beauty of Nature
The Breithorn
The Car Dealer
The Chin
The Circle – Renewal
The Conductor
The Driving Licence
The Duck Pond
The Ear
The English setter, Pet
The Eucalyptus tree
The Executioner’s Assistant
The Eyes
The Ferry-man
The fire
The following stories are from the 51 first days of 2001
The Garage
The Gondola Lift
The Grandchild
The Hair
The Hand
The Last Pheasant
The Lawnmower
The Lawyer
The Linoleum Floor
The Mantle-piece
The Messenger
The Mouth
The Neck
The Nose
The Piano Bar
The Pipe
The Presidents
The Price
The Rolls of Film
The Scarecrow
The Ski-lift
The Smile
The Soul
The Sub-goal
The sun-eaters lights us up
The sunscreens
The Table
The Tie
The Train Accident at Pålsboda
The Trifle
The Trip
The Typewriter
The Voice
The Waiting Room
The Wedding
The Wrong Queue
Things Take Time
Thoughts
Time
Tolerance and Compromise
Tradition
Traffic lights
Transitions and Milestones
Trip to Rome in 1958
Trundling Trolleys
Truth
Twisted
UFO
Understanding I
Understanding II
UNICEF
“Villages”
Visions with Words
Way up High
Way up High Continuation
We are all different
What is right and what is wrong?
Why?
Wild animals
With my back against the wall
Wrinkles
You are alone
December 1994
The date is of no interest.
The traffic is as always currently, enormously heavy. A routine I haven’t been part of for a long time as I normally leave the office a couple of hours later when there’s no traffic.
Grey leaden rags form a wall in front of the windscreen. The wipers keep the rain away only to the extent that I can see the two red staring eyes fewer than 10 meters in front of the car. It’s pitch-black outside and both lanes are filled with identical millipedes, barely moving.
Because I’m in the right-hand lane, I have a good view upwards through my side-window, and it’s this which provides the background for my observation.
At first, I don’t notice anything special, but I find it somewhat strange that the driver of the big trailer is looking down at me.
The vehicle is a right-hand drive!
The guy is wearing a flat cap on his head and sporting a large moustache and sideburns.
I cast an eye forward to make sure the distance to the red cat’s eyes remains constant, then turn my head to the left once more.
It is as I thought, not having noticed it at first, I’m now looking straight at the letters framed in red, ‘’United Carriers’’.
Have already, because of the right-hand drive, drawn the conclusion that the vehicle is of British origin, this is now confirmed - London.
I automatically become aware of my British passport which, along with my wallet, is in my back-pocket.
Check again the distance to the cat’s eyes, which because of the weather and the poor visibility through the windscreen look like two red crosses.
A thought comes to mind about whether it’s been nine or ten days since the referendum on the EU, before I have a last look up at my fellow countryman.
Since my queue has stopped completely, he glides slowly but surely away from me down towards the Vålerenga tunnel.
April 1994
How does one end up there?
Surprised by the husband’s unexpected arrival? The only safe place, behind the curtain. Naked, with one’s clothes in a bundle under one’s arm, pulse rate 120. He is the one who belongs in Business Class, you behind the curtain.
The first row of seats behind the curtain is the best.
No smoking, less engine noise, the best compromise.
An overview during take-off and landing, the curtain drawn back.
But when the curtain is drawn, it is only when one is sitting in the front row that one has a full view through the gap which is always there.
One cannot stop oneself looking through the gap. The curtain itself is either blue or grey, or beige and one cannot just sit there staring at it.
Heads, rows of heads, protruding ears, or ears close to the skull. Bald spots, looking like little moons, not unlike the one we would have seen outside had it been night-time.
Some with drinks in their hands, some with newspapers and some with books or magazines. Some leaning back, sleeping, often with their mouths open. Not that one can see the open mouths, one only senses them. Everyone is facing the front of the plane.
One senses it despite this, one feels that when it comes to a certain person, the mouth must be open, when one sees the position of the head on the headrest.
Another advantage of being behind the curtain is that one can look unrestrainedly at the legs of the flight attendant.
It is not so obvious somehow that that is what one is staring at.
One catches oneself at it though. But then they are there all the time. One could dwell on the subject a long time.
A further advantage of the curtain since it must be there anyway, is that the gap is vertical.
One sees it all. It is easy to concentrate on the legs, without committing oneself, one does not have to embrace the lot.
In other words, there is an advantage to sitting in the first row behind the curtain, but it must be the aisle seat.
April 1995
Once when I came to visit after it had happened, it was as if the whole place had died. It was early in the morning that I noticed it the most.
I also missed the sound of those who had kept at it all night, those who had made one aware of the bird life.
In other words, they had left. For more than a year and a half no birds were to be heard.
Something in the ecology had disappeared when the fire, which looked like a river several kilometres wide, devoured its way through the landscape, leaving everything in its wake, dead.
Nor had it rained for more than half a year when it happened, so the growth had been poor.
But then, as if by magic, they were back again. First a few individual ones, easily recognizable, then more, until finally they had reached their previous number.
After this magic incident one was once again made aware of how important birdsong is to one’s mental condition, just listening to it makes one happy.
Total silence can as one knows be pure torture.
Birdsong is in a way a true variety of the artificial background noise produced through loudspeakers to avoid silence, to make people feel comfortable.
Birdsong is in this case nature’s solution to the problem.
It seems certain that birdsong has its own meaning. We all feel that birdsong represents a form of making contact, a mating call, or a marking of one’s territory.
It is at least a form of communication and when one listens to all the different variations, one can ask oneself if it is for them the way it is for us, like listening to various languages. The question is whether their variations are more like dialects, or if they understand one another at all.
Most likely, they do not understand one another.
We make a big distinction between the various species and their ways of expressing themselves and our level of appreciation vary according to the quality.
There is something in the old proverb: “Every bird sings according to his beak”
They are such ingenious instruments these golden-voiced creatures, who can hit the perfect note trilling the most beautiful tunes, for the most part to our delight.
We normally take it for granted that the birdsong is there, but if you have experienced what I have, to have it suddenly disappear from a place where it has always been, you would have to be a very special sort of person if you didn’t miss it.
April 1995
I always have such a lot that wants out, but I almost always keep stumbling over something whenever I want to get started. All the thoughts that keep tumbling around in my head prevent me, from getting things out that is.
The problem is to get them stopped, get my thoughts into line, and numbered.
Of course, that’s the answer, getting them into line and numbering them.
All in a row - preferably several side-by-side - yes, that’s exactly how I want them - placed in rows.
Then I can walk along the rows like in an inspection and, when I wish, I can pull out the thought I want and either give it an order to translate itself into words or reprimand it for a sloppy presentation.
What abilities must one have to control one’s thoughts properly?
One clue may be concentration and during a certain period of my life, I tried to develop this ability. It took place in connection with so-called autogenic training which I tried out at that time, to see if I would be able to improve my sporting results.
I don’t believe it ever helped my sporting performance, but that I, through the process of autogenic training, got to know forces I never knew existed, there’s no doubt.
I have never entered the details of the process but as far as I can understand, it’s all about letting the brain control one’s muscles directly while the body remains completely passive.
This is where concentration comes into it.
Normally placed in a horizontal position, one uses one’s thoughts to get the different parts of the body to relax.
Rhythmic and monotone breathing. First the eyes, then the face, mouth, arms, etc. Having been successful, at this point no part of the body can be felt.
The brain, however, is crystal clear the whole time and this is where phase two can begin. One becomes aware that at this stage it seems like one’s thoughts are placed in an orderly row, that they in a way have settled down.
With self-possessed authority one then commands for instance the right arm to lift.
Perhaps the word command is not the right one in this case, request probably sounds better. Regardless, one repeats the request clearly to oneself at regular intervals.
Because the body has been completely set aside, pacified, a motor contraction of the muscles takes place, resulting in the arm gradually lifting itself from the surface, controlled solely by the brain without oneself being conscious of using one’s muscles.
It happens very carefully and the whole time in a series of small, jerky movements.
When one is conscious of the events, which one must be to reach the current state, the process works as follows:
Imagine a wooden block lying on a table. A rubber band has been fastened to it and you pull this carefully. The rubber band “muscle” is stretched without the block moving at first. Then suddenly, as if the cup were full, it runs over.
The block loosens its grip so to speak, moves suddenly and then stops.
The rubber band “muscle” has become relaxed, and the process begins again. The very conscious feeling as the arm lifts is fantastic. It’s as if one is sitting outside oneself but at the same time being completely in control. One is 100% aware of the situation and can adjust the distance of the arm from the surface according to one’s wish.
Then we get to the most exciting part. One tells one’s arm to stay in a certain position, which it does until told otherwise. Thus, the arm can, at for instance 45 degrees, remain hanging for a quarter of an hour without one having the sensation of using force at all.
I find it unnecessary to explain what would happen if one in the normal manner tried to keep one’s arm in this position for that length of time.
Totally uninteresting many of you would probably say and who in the world would get pleasure from lying there with their arm in the air in such a way?
Well, the arm business is probably somehow understandable, but it is often so that when one enters something, one wants to keep going, and so it was with me.
I find myself in a very special state of mind in the middle of the seventies, alone in room 610 at the Beau Rivage hotel in Geneva.
Like probably many others, I’ve always had a passionate desire to abolish gravity, in the sense that I would like to float in the air. Have periodically achieved this feeling of happiness in form of a dream.
Oh no, please don’t think I’ve lost any of my common sense.
On the Sunday morning in question, I find myself in a very special emotional state and start the process. Unlike all my previous practices of this mental hygiene, I choose this time, lying on my back, to let both arms press down against the surface I’m lying on, instead of having them lift.
I first reach the total feeling of peace which comes from completely disconnecting my body and then, after requesting a repeated pressing down of my hands at a steady rhythm, I observe to my amazement that my entire body is lifted slowly but surely from the surface.
At one moment only my heels are in touch with the surface apart, of course, from my hands.
I’m practically floating, without registering any conscious use of my muscles.
I still remember having a strange feeling that what I was experiencing was impossible, that it is physically impossible by normal use of one’s muscles.
I have a complete feeling of happiness, without really knowing why. I let my, at this moment, crystal clear brain explores every aspect of the phenomenon.
Make sure that I am floating above the surface. Try to analyse how it is possible, without finding an answer. I just lie there wondering.
This happened in the middle of the seventies, and it was as if this event put a natural stop to this exploration of my unconscious forces.
April 1995
Everything is in constant change, but what is it that’s changing? Is it us, or the things surrounding us?
Now I’m sitting at the airport in Geneva waiting for them to call LH5553, which will take me to Munich for a connecting flight to Oslo.
What has brought me here this September weekend is irrelevant to the story, so I have no intention of putting it down on paper.
No, what makes me reflect, is that just a few years ago, at a time when I was also on my way home from here, I was sitting on the mezzanine of the departure hall, looking at the information board and making my reflections about the various destinations. Then, as now, I had time to spare and thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to sit down in one of the soft imitation leather sofas and philosophize peacefully about life’s goings-on in general.
But what am I met with now? A wall of wood panels in front of what used to be a peaceful oasis. What’s behind the wall is, of course, none of my business and it’s not possible to imagine what it hides.
Somewhere though one must be able to sit down and relax and, right enough, some fifty meters away along the mezzanine, at least twenty rows of connecting plastic chairs can be seen, something like two hundred seats in bleak surroundings. This is what triggers my thoughts on “change”.
Even if it’s been no more than three years since I last came this way, I’m now thinking of Geneva itself, there’s no doubt that the Switzerland I knew then, and from previous visits, is no longer the same. The order and service I’ve always connected with this country; I haven’t found this time.
It may, of course, be that I’m the one who has changed, that I’m looking at things differently, but I don’t think so. The exclusive shops along the main streets won’t have changed.
That sort of style will probably always be maintained. No, it’s more that I no longer get the impression of quality which I did earlier. It’s difficult to put one’s finger on concrete issues, but there’s something not quite right in the general scheme of things.
The Swiss have never been seen as especially spiritual, but it is as if everything has been taken down a notch or two. I must hasten to say that the year is 1997 and, as we know, the Swiss economy is no longer surrounded by its glorious aura of earlier years. I don’t know to what extent the recent exposure of the Swiss economic attitude during the second world war affects them, but there seem to be some overall scratches in the varnish.
People I’ve met this weekend express the opinion that it’s unfortunate for Switzerland to be staying outside the Common Market and that this, according to them, causing some of the problems they admit to having. Only a week ago I read that Swiss Real Estate has been opened to foreign investment, something which up to now has been taboo. The reason is said to be the poor performance of the property market for some time.
Of course, there was a referendum, the Swiss are experts in such matters, on the Common Market issue, but that was then.
Had a new vote been taken today, one would, according to the information I’ve been given, have wanted in.
What is it that causes the change? Is it that we human beings generally don’t have the ability to see things in a greater perspective? It reminds me of the Norwegian debate where the question, “what’s in it for us?”, Always arises.
In my assessment, a totally twisted way of looking at the problem. It ought rather to be a question of, “what do we have to do in order to join”? That’s obviously not how it is, however. Everything must produce a profit and not on a long-term basis either, but here and now.
If it’s always been like this, I don’t know, but it’s clear that one earlier had more time at one’s disposal. Things didn’t move as quickly as one expects them too today. The pendulum, however, keeps swinging back and forth, nothing new there.
Practical experience shows that many people even today realize that things take time.
Apropos of this, despite rapid development, there hasn’t been a big change within the air-transport. Here the rule about things taking time applies, and I can’t remember being worse off fifteen or twenty years ago then today, as regards the time it takes to get from one destination to another by air. If anything, the time one must wait seems to have become longer these days than before. Obviously, there are more passengers to transport, and the traffic has increased, but that doesn’t change the fact that for each one of us the changes seem small.
Anyway, the commuter from Lufthansa has landed, exactly three quarters of an hour before it must take off for Munich with myself on-board.
October 1995
What does one do to make contact, or rather, what does one do to maintain contact?
One can’t make or maintain contact without one’s own initiative. Expressions like: “Talk to you later”, or: “I’ll give you a ring”, aren’t enough if there’s no follow-up.
In this context, the old saying: “Asked is had”, comes to mind.
Personally, I find that it sounds terrible, but I believe there are many people who base their social life on this system of reciprocity.
Everything moves in waves or, in other words, in cycles.
There is also no doubt that we all experience life as far from static.
On the contrary, there is probably nothing more dynamic as life itself.
Time not only passes by, but leaves its mark, not least in the way we get older and do the best we can to adapt to this development.
Sad it is for those who call life a treadmill, those who haven’t grasped that life’s development is really life itself.
Back to the contact. If the opposite of contact is loneliness, then contact is worth fighting for.
Often there can be too much contact, which can easily lead to stress and discomfort, even though the intentions were good.
It is with contact as with everything else, the amount must be balanced, the golden mean found.
How often does one think about contacting this person or that, without getting around to doing it? Perhaps one shouldn’t feel so bad about what one doesn’t do in these cases. The thought alone is a form of contact.
If one looks at it from this point of view, it alleviates one’s bad conscience to some extent, but it’s not a proper solution.
All action starts with contact. Think of an electric switch being turned on; contact starting an action. This should, figuratively speaking, serve as a good enough explanation for the importance of contact.
September 1994
I want to make clear from the start, should anyone think so, that I don’t in any way elevate myself to the position of judge in this case - the case in which the limits for allowable sloppiness are set.
Sloppiness occurs in many contexts but here I’m concerned with sloppiness in the written word.
Hardly anyone in my class was worse than I was when it came to Norwegian spelling. One thing is to write grammatically correct - tragic to see how bad today’s standard has become - that’s not what I’m thinking of, however, but how to write so that the wished-for meaning becomes clear, which is something else altogether.
I’m back to my opinion regarding the significance of the “bagatelle” - the tiny detail - or in this case, more specifically, the importance of choosing the right word. In its simplest form it can be the significance of a misplaced comma on the full meaning of a sentence.
It is here, in my opinion, that the risk lies as regards sloppiness.
Then one may ask oneself; a risk of what or for whom and does it really matter?
Of course, it’s quite seldom that the consequences of an error in such cases are of a serious character, but anyway.
I must admit that it bothers me a bit, the sloppiness in this instance.
If it’s tolerated in minor cases, why shouldn’t it slip through just as easily where it could create major misunderstandings?
It also has something to do with myself as a person. I believe that if one is conscious of this problem, it will in many other instances also affect one’s personal attitudes and behaviour.
This latter was perhaps a bit ambitious, but you’ll probably agree with me that it has something, if you think about it.
I would never have voiced my opinion on this, if I hadn’t had a concrete example of what I mean.
As a member of Furuset rotary club for almost ten years, I have like everyone else held several “3 minutes”. These are normally based on one’s own thoughts or reflections, experiences, or views.
They are never the subject of discussion and are thus only for the personal reflection of their listeners.
One of my “3 minutes”, held on 04.07.94 and dealing with my thoughts on the soul, was on request included, as a 2-page essay, in number 4 of the rotary club’s monthly newsletter in 1994.
By the way, I should point out that I’ve also held a “3 minute” about my reflections on the “bagatelle” and its, in my opinion, great significance.
Judging by the insignificant, but at the same time significant exchange of words caused by the minutes of my soul speech, my reflections on the “bagatelle” can’t have made a very big impression.
I have often thought that my reflections aren’t suited to the printed word, as I believe they have more impact when delivered orally, with a bit of feeling, but that’s a different story.
Now it’ll be interesting to see if you understand what I mean. It would, of course, have been better if you’d read all “The Soul” first, but there has to be limits to what one will do for the sake of a tiny “bagatelle”.
Straight to the point, second page, first paragraph of “The Soul”, as printed in the monthly newsletter:
“It is said that houses have souls. This as an example of our apparent acceptance that also things have souls. Quite possibly - I don’t believe it - and don’t for a second doubt that it, in that case, would have to be a totally different type of soul - not the regular soul - the one with a capital S”. End of quote.
It’s all about the word “regular”. The original says the “real” soul. One can judge for oneself if “the regular soul - the one with a capital S” can in any way compete with “the real soul - the one with a capital S”, or if it really does matter.
For the sake of context, I include a bit more of what follows - quote:
“Reflections on that soul, the one with a capital S- was what the dictation was all about, and it wasn’t especially mysterious - only expressed that it would be strange if there wasn’t something more to it - something more than the life we “miserable” people lead here on earth”. End of quote.
Thinking about if it really does matter - I quote from the second to last paragraph on page 2:
“If the soul separates from the body when we pass on, the soul has to go somewhere - the body disappears - that is correct - but the soul?”. End of quote.
I’ve never made myself an advocate of whether it is “correct” for the body to disappear - as if it, out of respect for social customs, should do so.
All I’ve done is state the simple fact that “the body disappears - that’s concrete - but what about the soul?”.
Both words begin with a “c” and look somewhat similar so at least they have something in common.
It would be an exaggeration to say that my soul has been damaged by the sloppiness in the written word, but I still feel that it “somehow matters” and that we should be a bit more critical in this case.
April 1998
Four hundred meters above sea-level, a twenty-minute drive from the Mediterranean, more specifically in the lower part of the Sierra Cabrera in Andalusia. Here one sits at half past ten in the evening checking one’s e-mail.
Of course, one must make four or five attempts before one is finally connected to the network.
There it comes, the first of two messages start to appear in the blue section of the screen. The most incredible isn’t that technology makes it possible to be able to sit here watching it happen, the most fantastic is that one’s geographical location no longer matters. This form of communication is in fact, if everything functions as it’s meant to, easier than being in the office next door to the person one wants to communicate with, without this aid.
I look up at the ceiling while the blue column fills up from left to right as the message keeps coming in.
The colour is almost the same as the artificial beams in the ceiling which are painted in the characteristic Andalusia n blue. One is in a way isolated up here in the mountains but at the same time in the thick of things.
I keep looking at the crazy picture of Windows.
It is now half an hour past midnight, the 15th of April 1998. Have come into the office only to check if the expected mail from Singapore has arrived.
Everything takes as one sees much longer than necessary from a technological point of view, but even so, it’s fantastic.
The message is in this case not so interesting, I know what it’s all about. What is impressive is that it happens, that the message arrives in this manner.
Eight or ten hours ago I called my contact over there on my mobile which is lying in front of me.
It made contact as the person I was calling, with a six-hour time difference, was ordering his dinner meal from the menu of a restaurant in Singapore.
Nothing functions as one thinks it should, however. I’ve been sitting here for quite some time waiting for the message to be downloaded on my computer. Finally, it’s registered as incoming, but to get it to appear on the screen evidently takes a lot longer.
The minutes go by and the first green signal on the left of the section, which shows that something is happening, is the only thing I register.
One feels somewhat frustrated when the time keeps passing and nothing seems to be happening. One glares at the tempting little text which says: ‘’Press escape to cancel’’. I don’t really want to cancel, of course, as it means having to start all over again. The text on the left tells me what I’m about to receive and it is what I’ve asked for.
The hourglass on the grey side of the screen tells me that the system is working. This makes me confident that escape isn’t the right option, but I strongly doubt that what I believe will happen is about to happen, that the message will arrive.
Has something got hung up? One doesn’t know, things, as already mentioned, never function as expected. The tendency to blame the computer is there as always. One doesn’t know how it really functions and almost certainly uses it differently from what the available instructions say, as those are never read.
Because here one isn’t talking about reading a short paragraph to get something to work, it’s more a question of reading books on the subject and what is one’s time really for?
Now at least it looks as if the computer has bit off more than it can chew.
The hourglass just stands there. With the mouse I can move it around, but it doesn’t help me a lot.
I can still see the little green spot on the left side of the column which tells me that ‘’the specifications for an advanced audio recording system for courtrooms’’, which I am about to receive, is on its way.
The temptation to capitulate is great, I keep looking at the escape key.
What does one do?
It is now a quarter to one and one continues to sit there thinking that this wonderful device has an answer to everything.
Finally, I reluctantly must admit that though the mail has arrived in my computer, it won’t materialize in text and pictures.
I cut the local connection, switch off the computer and turn off the light to take a last look at the starry sky before climbing into bed.
November 1995
A fiesta is something typically Spanish. They have them all the time there it seems. A great invention as it, because of the way it is celebrated, gives people bread and circus. In fact, it provides full entertainment for as long as it lasts.
And then the fiestas often wander from one village to the next, so that in the season, in less than half an hour, one is always able to find a fiesta.
I have been given to understand that the local people take their holidays at fiesta time.
A fiesta lasts about four to five days and offers a tightly packed program.
The arrangement shows signs of old traditions, the local brass band is continuously involved as a matter of course and the amusement park attractions and market stalls form a natural part of the entertainment.
In the last few decades at least one pop-group has also taken part, placed on an elevated platform in the village square and emitting a noise going far beyond the pain threshold of the average person. The blast of sound is felt against one’s entire body. This is, of course, accompanied by rhythmical cascades of different colored light flung into the dark of night.
The main street is also decorated with lights in all colors of the rainbow, as well as with pennants, banners, and emblems, hung close enough together to practically form a roof.
All the religious events, which consist of various kinds of processions must not be forgotten either as they are the original reasons for the fiesta itself.
If one has seen or been near the scene of a fiesta, one cannot have avoided noticing the cannonade of fireworks which add luster to the celebrations.
In the village of this story the annual autumn fiesta is held in the first week of October, from the 3rd to the 7th. The special event which I want to describe, happened on Friday the sixth at half past five and is in the program described as: “Traditional Corrida de Cintas a Caballo,” which can be translated as: “The Traditional Ribbon Race on Horseback”.
I find a small gap for the car at the end of Calle Las Palmeras, a street about five meters wide and a couple of hundred meters long which leads toward the main street.
The street, Palmeras, owes its name to the five big beautifully kept palm trees standing majestically in a row in front of the village church which is also situated here.
Even ten to fifteen meters from where Calle Las Palmeras ends at the main street the crowd is getting dense. A lot of people have already lined up.
On the other side of the intersecting main street, which is ten meters at its widest, a grandstand, with some twenty chairs placed on it, has been erected. Nobody is sitting there yet, but from the excitement of the crowd, it is obvious that something is about to happen.
We force our way a few meters forward and above the heads of most of the local people, I glance up and down the main street. People are crowded together like sardines in a tin, stuck against the walls of the houses on both sides of the street, which is paved, but for the occasion covered in sand for its entire length and width.
On a steel wire strung between the corner of the house where we are standing and the stage across the street, rolled-up ribbons in all the colors of the rainbow have been hung, close together.
They are hanging at a height of about 2 and a half meters above street level and at the bottom of each ribbon a ring has been stitched, with a diameter of not much more than a couple of centimeters. The rings, and that is important, all have their openings in the lengthwise direction of the street.
The local band turns into the main street near its beginning and starts marching along it, releasing the most cheerful tunes. Even if they do not total much more than twenty, consisting of both sexes and all ages, they have trouble finding a space next to the grandstand when they, to the cheers of the crowd, have completed their march up the sand-covered main street.
Finally, they have settled themselves and after a short break, their rhythmical beat starts up again and from the side-street behind the grandstand eighteen beautifully dressed señoritas appear. After an enthusiastic applause from the spectators, they get onto the grandstand and take their seats.
They are followed by, I get the names from the program, the two couples “Pareja Real Juvenil” and “Pareja Real Infantil”. The first couple symbolizes the prince and princess of the youngsters, the other of the children.
They are also magnificently dressed and wearing the most beautiful colored ribbons.
The two couples take the place of honour on the grandstand.
Only then it occurs to me that the colors of each of the rolled-up ribbons hanging above the street correspond to the colors of the dresses worn by the eighteen señoritas.
The ceremonial consists in that the riders, one by one, come riding up the street at full gallop, standing up in the saddle, with the reins in one hand and a pencil in the other. The hand holding the pencil is gradually lifted as they get near the row of ribbons above the street and is aimed toward the ring of one of them.
If the rider catches a ring as he rushes by, the ribbon unfurls from its roll and forms a pennant a couple of meters long. Because of the speed, it is left flapping horizontally in the air behind him as he continues his ride up the street.
The spectators cheer as the rider turns around and comes back to the stage.
The person responsible for the four-legged creatures, an elegant large-nosed gentleman with a tan, obviously of gypsy blood, holds the horse while the agile rider jumps down ribbon in hand and climbs up onto the grandstand.
The señorita whose ribbon he carries is called to the front and she fastens the ribbon, which she herself has embroidered in the most beautiful pattern and with her own name, across one of the rider’s shoulders and down to his hip on the opposite side.
Having given her a kiss on both cheeks, he returns to his proud steed and disappears up the main street, where he, at the end of his round, appears at the back of the queue of riders, who in this way fight to catch as many ribbons as possible.
The degree of difficulty is, as one can imagine, quite high and at least five tries are needed for each ribbon before they accompany the galloping rider on his way.
Originally the ritual consisted in each rider, there was the exact same number of riders as señoritas on the stage, being allowed to catch just one ribbon so that Cupid’s arrow would hit its mark when the rider was confronted with his beautiful virgin.
I have later been told by reliable sources, that several lasting relationships in the village are known to have had their beginnings in just such a ritual.
For each ribbon removed, the others are pushed toward the middle, while the equipage rushes by as quickly as safety permits.
It takes almost two hours before all the ribbons decorate the riders and the ceremony ends.
Everything culminates in a series of rockets being shot up. There is a continuous whistling sound before they, high up in the darkened sky, open to their intended form in a series of deafening bangs.
We wander back the same way as we came, get into our “Fiesta” and head toward home, filled with adventure.
April 1994
In order not to make this story too long, it’ll be long enough in itself, I’ll skip over all the boring days – all the days I spend with my brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, etc., hibernating in the dark.
Don’t misunderstand me – there’s a lot of pleasure to be had with one’s family, but it’s of no great interest to others.
What all of us in the family look forward to and are made for, is just such a day as the one I’m about to describe.
Next to my trademark, I’ve got a very pretty and above all clearly visible printed logo. Two red elephants standing trunk-to-trunk. The symbol of safety. The trademark is printed in black – MaxFly is the name.
I start out with this remark because it’s unfortunately all too easy to be mistaken for someone else.
If it happens by mistake, it’s OK, but I’ve experienced it being done on purpose – not amusing. To me it’s only happened once – it probably has something to do with the logo.
Enough said, today I was chosen as the lucky one – lifted gently out of the golf bag – caressed.
A wonderfully refreshing morning wash – can be a bit rough, but when one is dried off afterwards in a soft towel and ends up in a warm hand – one feels only well-being and joy, not to mention excitement.
Between the fingers I can see the sunrise behind the clubhouse. We’re certainly off to an early start today.
I know that none of the others in the flight have a logo, but names like Titleist, Slazenger and Prostaff, are also not to be sneered at.
I can see that everyone in the flight are men. The usual discussion about bets can be heard – oh, I know it all so well – “Københavner” and I don’t know what.
They’ve agreed and since I know the others, I know that we tee off as number three – second highest handicap.
My friend Prostaff sits proudly on top of a pink peg, about three centimetres above the beautiful dew-covered turf of the teeing ground.
Ssswish he’s off at great speed toward the hole 338 meters away – par 4.
Not bad, he got himself some lovely fresh air.
Slazenger is number two. Oh no – strong hook, probably no more than a hundred meters – long second shot – their business.
My turn – blue peg, matches my red logo and chalk-white background colour.
I’m feeling good – look at how my master’s mouth is set – a bit determined today – is he relaxed enough?
Gentle back-swing – it’s going well. Perfect timing – stops at the top and now... I close my eyes in anticipation – will it be a clean hit?
Oy, oy, oy, what a hit – I soar like a bird – no twisting, not to the right nor to the left – I can stare straight ahead the whole time – across the Bogstad Lake and far into the valley of Sørkedalen – I can only wait for a magnificent touch down way down by the ditch.
Touch down, a bounce, a bit of a roll and there I lie – what a shot.
I can picture my master who has long since bent down and picked up the peg.
Turning towards the others with a slight smile on his face, thinking – this’ll be my day.
I’m lying way down on the fairway and can’t see the teeing place – that means I also can’t see Titleist’s screwed flight to the right – to put it mildly, a huge slice – practically as far as the 18th fairway.
The play is in progress – by the way, what’s happened to Prostaff?
Oh well, he’s lying safely about 25 meters short of me. Well, well, we’ll see.
The first quarter of an hour has passed since my morning bath. The sun is already above the treetops. Crystal blue skies – it’s going to be a beautiful day.
Perhaps unnecessary to mention that we won the hole – at par – not strange with that confidence.
5 for Prostaff and Slazenger – 6 for Titleist. In all fairness, it must be said that we had a fair amount of luck with the putt – 4-5 meters straight in – incredible what confidence can do.
Score noted, ready for the second hole.
All four on the fairway after teeing off. Difficult second shot for Titleist.
Ouch, hit a tree and bounced into the rough. Oh well, that’s golf. Lies as far as I can see open for an approach shot, however, and in that case, probably a three-iron.
A successful second shot for all of us. Titlist’s three-iron a misery.
After a further two shots, I find myself about fifty meters from the green, gently resting on a mound of grass. The wedge is topped despite the perfect lay, and I fly passed the flag with a clearing of no more than 10 centimetres – end up near the teeing place at the seventh.
The pitch with the seven-iron from 25 meters, brings me to about four meters from the stick. Unfortunately, two putts – in at seven – not bad after all – par 5 – handicap 5.
Shared the hole with Slazenger and Prostaff – Titleist picked up.
Third hole – thank God – finally cleaned again and dried. A kiss which tickled followed by a short prayer - “On the green in one, dear ball”. Par three, 172 meters.
The same blue peg – a five-spoon. I saw it already in the back-swing, and I was also pegged too high.
What a height – obviously not far enough – straight into the bunker at the front, to the left of the green.
As my master twists backwards and forwards to get into a good stance for the bunker shot, he exclaims: “Damn wind”. I didn’t notice it at all, the wind that is.
He’s grimacing – the back-swing is far too quick. Right enough – I plough through the sand for twenty centimetres and remain there almost buried.
The next strike has a better rhythm – surrounded by a cloud of sand, I end up three meters short of the stick. Am marked, lifted, and dried off – can finally draw a breath of fresh air – ready for putting. One ahead and one in - five - and one point.
Got the end score from my friends, as I in my sand-infested state had more than enough with worrying about myself – no chance to look at what the others were doing.
Two fours and two fives.
Hole four, the most difficult of the course, I’d rather not talk about – skip elegantly over it. Life has its ups and down – not least in golf.
Suffice it to say that we tee off last at the fifth.
Here there’s nothing special worth mentioning, except that Titlist at tee off ended up in the birch wood on the right. Needed two shots to get out – ended at eight.
Both Prostaff and Slazenger are keeping up – five in the cup.