Nekko-do

It sprang into my head as an idea as clear as tap water pours into a glass. And it is as simple as it is genius. So much so that I suspect I'm not the first person to think of it.

Let us begin with the name. It means 'the way of the cat'. In Japanese. Why Japanese? Because it instantly sounds cool. It involves cats  and meditation and perfectioning one's mood, posture and attitude, so it might as wel have been inveted or first thought of in a remote zen buddhist cloister.

What you do is this: you sit in a chair or bench or grassy spot in the sun, it matters little as long as you are secluded from eletronic distractions and major city noise. Now sit perfectly still until a cat selects your lap for a little day time nap. Immediately you will experience the urge to reach for a book, a cup of tea, a glass of wine, you will think of a million chores and feel an irresistible urge to use the bathroom or some long postponed telephone calls. Ignore all these impulses. Slowly and deliberatly stroke the cat and clear your mind of anything but the purring of your feline friend. Continue unil the cat leaves voluntarily.

Et voila.

A Poem #1

Tell me, if I caught you one day
and kissed the sole of your foot,
wouldn't you limp a little then,
afraid to crush my kiss?...

Nichita Stãnescu

Too beautiful not too post. Stumbled upon it around here.

Dig this.

Since I've escaped from my parents music taste this man plus band has been one of my favourites. Very ugly moustache though!

Origami Bird

I should publish this, even if it was just for the sound track.

Proppian

Stumbling one day, I came across a fairy tale generator. How could I not share this joy with you?

A child playing in the dirt asked me, "Where did you get your shoes?"

"Sugar and spice," the old woman beckoned as she held out palms filled with cinnamon falling between her fingers like sand. As she sprinkled it across the floor my head swum up in a dizzy spell of hunger. I could no longer control my feet moving towards the cheap gimmicks of an old woman.

"What weighs you down will make you drown," he said with a loud crescent shaped grin. I believed him. I may have been a fool but with my head thrown asunder by the crashing tides of water I took off my shoes and bag and threw them across the stream on the other bank.

The girl knelt down at my feet, pressing her furry costume against my skin. "Please help me," she said, and kissed one foot. She kissed the other. And when I looked down I found both the leather-bottomed shoes gone and bare toes remaining. They froze in the mountain wind. At my feet a white wolf with childlike eyes stared up at me, grinned, and ran off with two shoes in her jaws.

I never strayed too far from home because the thought of father returning home always came back to me. But when air blew away the last remnant of his scent I knew he would not return. So I set out, again, watching my mother's stomach sink into the floor. I did not turn my head as I heard the people pull her into the ground.

A woman from the mountain dressed in dragon scales walked down towards me. Her feet were as bare as mine but that did not seem to matter, because wherever she stepped her feet did not make a sound. "I hear of a man who can perform miracles. He walks across the soil without danger and carries with him his father's ring. Are you this man?"

I pulled the needle out of where it would cause harm, and happy that I did so.

The fairy placed a single seed in my palm which I immediately planted and tended to for months. For days, I watered the seed, showered it with words of encouragement as it grew into a young sprout, and gave it proper space and care as it blossomed fully into a magnificent red rose that granted any wish that I whispered lovingly into its soft petals.

As I fought blindly as callow youths do, a white bird flew by my side and attached a feather to my bleeding wounds. They began to heal instantaneously.

Through the blind frenzy of earth and shadows I plunged my dagger into the creature's heart and watched as it melted into rain.

Waves of comfort and relief washed over my tired limbs as my father and mother embraced and kissed me. The familiar sights of my home and scents of my family soothed me so much that I nearly forgot the heavy pack I had carried for hours on my back, a sack filled with treasures I had collected throughout my journey to bring back to my family.

As the soil on me continued to turn into gold, the ground of our garden sprouted trees, fruits, and vegetables. My family and I stared in a daze as we watched our land grow rich and the people of the soil draw away.

V&A: a review

It was in the easter holiday of 1992, on a trip to Vienna with my parents that I first fell in love with a museum. Not surprisingly, as I was then around eight years old it was the natural history museum housing a gigantic dinosaur skeleton that I fancied so much. However with my age my wisdom and taste must evolve also and my newest love is the Victoria & Albert Museum in South Kensington, London. (Click here to be taken to their site.)

The building itself is beautiful, the collections of art and historical artefacts are gargantuesque, the displays are elegant, not too sober, the information interesting and often interactionally educational, the staff kind and well-informed and then I haven't even told you about the video's and sound fragments. It's too much to tell you, if you go to London skip Mdme Tussaud's and Big Ben V&A is where you need to be.

London calling

I could be mistaken. But I doubt it and unless I'm mistaken you won't read anything new on this blog until I return home from my favourite country in the world ( as I have never been fysically out of this world I would not venture on opinions on country that might or might not be found there.) Should you wonder what I seek abroad. I'm going to see some of these for myself.

Envy

Think what you will, I am not envious of people who have the opportunity to go abroad, who bathe in the sun and practise their language skills with locals instead of badly translated B-rated films. But I am jealous of anyone who has stood before the Sagrada Familia, who has witnessed in his/her own eyes the genius of Gaudí, who has cassually walked through Park Guëll and drank overpriced beer at Las Ramblas.

Everybody who fails to bring me pictures or a postcard shall feels my wrath, the fact that I have been seriously and serially ignoring/ insutling you for the past few months, plotting your untimely death or worse and thinking of unfriendly words to say at your funeral is not an excuse.

Yes Please

I'd be crying for laughter if I wasn't already simply crying.

Ticking

Me and my cooking coach we are a cultural bunch. And yesterday evening we went to a concert for contemporary chamber music, which was never quite my style of entertainment, but I had a great time and the rabbit claims likewise so no problem there.

Only drawback was not having eaten first but still drinking 2 glasses of red wine, so I went home a twidgy bit tipsy, nothing wrong with that is there? I plan on being drunk a few times more this week.

The title of this post refers to 'symphonic poem for 100 metronomes' the centerpiece of the evening. Which was very modern and very cool.