This bird had a mother too

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the fatal fantasy failed.

Two days ago there was the usual daily running.
This time not on the long beach but on the land.
Due to a strong northwestern wind.
The track on the land that makes a circle through the desert among bushes and cactuses and rocks and dust for about 50 minutes.

It is an exhausting and challenging run because the road goes up and down, is uneven and full of rocks.
And occasionally a big snake may be resting on the track.

But two days ago there was an additional experience running on that road.
Out of nothing a very, very strong feeling was experienced that somebody ahead was standing there.
Waiting to meet the runner.
And this person waiting was wearing a long black cloth with a cape.
With in his hand a scythe.
Immediately it was realized this was Mr. Death himself.

Of course many times in books this phenomenon of Death as a man in a long black dress and wide cape with a scythe in one hand was read being described.
And it has been seen as an image often.
But it was always believed that this image of Death was the result of human fantasy.
How man imagines how Death manifests itself when the moment has come.
A caricature.
A childish and naive representation of something or someone we can’t know anything about.



But then we don’t really know.
When the moment has come to die, why not could it be that a creature with a scythe in the hand comes to guide us to forever?
And while running and experiencing and feeling so incredibly strongly that in front Mr. Death was waiting, the thought grounded that maybe this is actually as it is.
When we die a creature in a wide black coat with a cape hiding the face and a scythe in the hand comes to meet us.

This is a frightening thought, fervent and loyal blog readers.
Becoming convinced that Mr. Death actually exists and is the one to meet as the last experience before to die.
And that in less than a minute he will be met because he is waiting there.

This conviction, how ridiculous and preposterous as it was, nevertheless was extra firm and royally reigning.
It was deeply believed the last steps in life were being made.
That in the days to come some Mexican visiting the area to dive for oysters would find the corpse of the athlete already partly consumed by coyotes.
A European man died of a heart attack while running.

And actually this is not an unlikely scenario.
In the family two generations ago heart attacks were common.
This because of genetic high levels of cholesterol.
Nowadays several members of the family have also this issue but live longer by taking medication, artificially lowering the too high level of cholesterol.
The pioneering photographer has been diagnosed having this family characteristic as well and doctors insisted to take daily cholesterol lowering medication.
This has been refused.
Never in the life the body was bothered with medication having the philosophy that when it is time to go, it is time to go.
But that meanwhile it is wise to have a very well balanced diet and regime of physical exercise plus being mentally balanced and in harmony as a strategy to stay alive.
This works well until now and the body is thankfull for not having to digest chemical substances with severe side effects.

But more and more it is becoming likely that Mr. Death might be met.
It can’t take more time than life has been enrolling itself already.

And there on this rough road running it was strongly felt he was there.
Total conviction the moment had come.
Goodbye life.

But then the book of Carlos Castaneda “A separate reality” was remembered in which a Mexican Indian Shaman called Don Juan explains that life must be lived as a warrior.
That one has to fight for independence, balance, harmony and enlightenment.
Not fighting as we humans do each other with weapons and napalm and waterboarding.
But in this context it is fighting in a spiritual way.
To remain in the own tracks and grounded in the own karma and to not being fished out of the stream of the own life.
By making choices out of total conviction.
From the heart and the soul synchronistic with life and the universe.

And remembering Don Juan and his wise lessons it was realized that Mr. Death was indeed there in front waiting to take the runner out of life.
But that still being alive a choice could be made.
The choice to deliver oneself to Mr. Death and go with him as a lamb to the altar.
Or to chose to stay alive and be stronger than Mr. Death.
To not allow even Mr. Death permission to terminate a process of growing.
Because it is far from finished.

The choice was instantly made without hesitation.
And the fatal fantasy failed.




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Hurry to die

There is a famous Dutch poem called “The gardener and Death”.
It is written by the poet P.N. van Eyck.
It goes like this:

De tuinman en de dood

Een Perzisch Edelman:
Van morgen ijlt mijn tuinman, wit van schrik,
Mijn woning in: "Heer, Heer, één ogenblik!
Ginds, in de rooshof, snoeide ik loot na loot,
Toen keek ik achter mij. Daar stond de Dood.
Ik schrok, en haastte mij langs de andere kant,
Maar zag nog juist de dreiging van zijn hand.
Meester, uw paard, en laat mij spoorslags gaan,
Voor de avond nog bereik ik Ispahaan!" -
Van middag (lang reeds was hij heengespoed)
Heb ik in 't cederpark de Dood ontmoet.
"Waarom," zo vraag ik, want hij wacht en zwijgt,
"Hebt gij van morgen vroeg mijn knecht gedreigd?"
Glimlachend antwoordt hij: "Geen dreiging was 't,
Waarvoor uw tuinman vlood. Ik was verrast,
Toen 'k 's morgens hier nog stil aan 't werk zag staan,
Die 'k 's avonds halen moest in Ispahaan."

P.N. van Eyck

This poem was translated by David Colmer
And that goes as follows:

The Gardener and Death

A Persian Nobleman:

This morning, with a face turned pale from fright,
My gardener rushed in, "Sir, if I might!

"At work, just now, I stopped to take a breath,
And looked up from the roses. There stood Death.

"Startled, I quickly left the work I'd planned,
But saw full well the menace of his hand.

"Lend me a horse and I will make it run.
Before night falls I'll be in Ispahan!"

This afternoon (I'd long since watched him flee),
I chanced on Death beneath a cedar tree.

When he just stood there in his cloak of grey,
I asked about the threat he'd made that day.

He smiled, "It was not threat as he surmised.
I raised my hand because I was surprised,

"To find a man here working in the sun,
Whom I must fetch tonight in Ispahan."

This poem came to mind because of the recent death of Solomon Burke.
The famous soul singer.




Some time ago he was booked to perform at a private party in the Netherlands.
That must have been for quite an amount of money because Solomon Burke is a successful business man.
Besides, he moves his 300 kilos body around in a wheelchair, therefore flying long distance through crowded airports is for him not an easy thing to do.

On top of everything, it turned out that his concert at the private party in the Netherlands was canceled.

While waiting for a flight back to the USA, he decided to go to a concert of a Dutch band called “De Dijk”.
A band that is together for over thirty years and does light Rock and Roll and ballads in the Dutch language.

Solomon Burke was very enthusiastic about “De Dijk” and when he met the band members he learned that he was one of their idols.

This contact resulted in “De Dijk” translating into English their best songs and Solomon Burke came again to the Netherlands and sang those songs that became his new CD.

Next, “De Dijk” and Solomon Burke decided to give a concert together in the Netherlands tomorrow.
For this he flew last Sunday to Amsterdam again where after arrival, he died at the airport, finding his Ispahan.







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Sey

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The City of Death

In a railway station.
Many people moving to catch a train or to go home.
Noise, nervousness, transit turmoil.

In the large hall the Queen of Dreams is standing talking to the pioneering photographer.
As always, she is dressed in an attractive way making many men and women turn their heads.

And then it is time to say goodbye and find the platform from where the train will leave.
But suddenly it is realized that the name of the city to travel to is unknown.
Or not remembered.
A kind of panic breaks out.
Which train to take when it is not known where to go?

Quickly in the briefcase the travel documents are looked for.
Because on the train ticket the destination will be printed.

Meanwhile the time of departure is coming real close and one has to run and hurry to catch the train.
But again, which train?

While looking for the train ticket one platform after the other is rapidly visited to check if there is the correct train.
But which train is correct?

In the briefcase a travel document is found but it simply allows to travel on trains without indicating any destination.

A station master is spotted and approached.
He is asked which train to catch but what can he reply?
If the traveller doesn't know his destination?

The situation ends by realizing that any train could be boarded when one doesn't know his or her destination.

Because in life it is not about destination.
It is about getting there.

The only city that exists at the end of the line is called Death.




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Purity only found inside life

When living where ocean meets the land, things can be found.
Washed ashore from the world of men and animals.
Brought by the waves to land on the sand of the beach.

This is metaphorical but today we don't go into mysticism.
It is about the concrete things that end up on the beach.

Yesterday this was a dolphin.
A beautiful animal that somehow had died and was washed ashore.

Already in the early morning, from the fabulous vantage point of the Fuso Szulc, two coyotes had been spotted ripping at an object washed ashore.
Later, when making the morning walk, it was discovered it was an adult dolphin.

Already the belly had been ripped open by the coyotes and many of the intestines eaten by the vultures.

It was decided to move the dolphin higher up on the beach close to the dunes.
To give it a more decent place and honor it with a last sign of respect and appreciation for its ended existence.

It needed the force of two persons to move the heavy sea creature higher on the beach.
But while moving it something was noticed.
From the open belly an object was seen inside the body.
First it was assumed it was the liver or something.
But then it was noticed that when pushing on the belly, this object slightly came out.

An effort was made to accomplish a total delivery and shocking was the surprise to see it was a baby dolphin.
The dolphin had been pregnant.
The mother who died for unknown reasons, washed ashore and had the baby end the life with her.

It was of a morbid beauty.
This baby dolphin.
Like still being with the angels.
Of a purity found only inside life.











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Just being.

An experience that glues on the current situation of living.
A friend asked to be of help.
His sister had died and her house needed to be cleaned out.

A house in a gated community for retired persons.
Filled with things accumulated during many years.
Things that served a purpose or had an emotional value and suddenly lost all reason for being there anymore.

It was rather chaotic inside that house.
As efforts were made to empty it.
And everything that was seen, the kitchen, the sofa, the bed, all the things, reminded of the person who once used it and now was dead.

A tsunami of sadness and grief thundered on every person daring to go into that house.
To realize how futile life in fact is.
Every person building a fortress around existence consisting of objects that eventually are not more than destined to be trash.

Standing in that house of death, feeling it and smelling it, a memory from one of Osho's lectures came to mind.
That to be overwhelmed is equal to drifting out of your centre.
And that no matter what, one must always remain balanced and centered.

Hence, being in that house with the tremendous strong presence of the person that was not anywhere anymore, the exercise was performed to not be absorbed by sadness.
To not be lured into depression.
To not be shot to the dark side of the moon.

The best that can be achieved exercising centeredness in such a situation is a form of neutral presence.
Being there without feeling sadness, but also without feeling happiness.
Just being.
Period.



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Die in peace

One of the most awful activities imaginable had to be performed recently.
Dealing with the heritage.

As with every human being, death will knock on the door somewhere in the future.
And in the case of an artist photographer, there is an archive.
Consisting of negatives, prints and digital files.
This legacy possibly continues to play a role in the world of art.
The images may continue to be published and exhibited.
The prints will continue to sell to collectors and museums.
All this needs to be managed and supervised in the spirit of the artist photographer.

In most cases it is the family of the artist-photographer who become responsible for the heritage.
But this is not always effective.
Sometimes, family has no interest whatsoever to get involved to protect and manage negatives, prints, digital files and the revenues.
And they are disconnected from defending the spirit of the deceased artist photographer.

In those cases other ways have to be found to safeguard the heritage.
In a way that it is professionally stored.
That it is effectively farmed.
And that the continuing income from sales, prints and copyrights and the possible capital is spent in the way the dead artist photographer desires.

Most common is to create a foundation.
With a board and statutes.
But that is a rather complicated matter.

Fortunately there is a bank, called the Insinger de Beaufort Bank.
To which is related a foundation called "Ars Donandi".
Qualified persons can have a fund with "Ars Donandi" as the foundation.
The money goes into the fund and the foundation not only invests the capital but also
donates based on the wishes of the fund holder.

In this way one can have total control over what happens with the heritage.
It is safeguarded, through the investment it can grow and the revenues can be donated to one's own wishes.

So one can die in peace of mind.

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See
www.arsdonandi.nl




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Death in white

It is mid winter now in Cracow, Poland and the beautiful city is covered by snow.
Making it even more pretty.
Almost fairy tale like when one sees for example the Cracow castle.

However, one aspect of winter in Poland is that weekly people die because of the cold.
A kind of involuntary suicide because it is due to excessive use of alcohol.

The thing is that vodka, a very strong liquor, is widely consumed in Poland.
And for many the approach is to drink so much that drunkenness is reached.
A tolerated phenomenon in Polish society.

And this is the start for the persons to die in the streets of the villages and towns of Poland.
Drunk they leave the house or the bar while the snow on the pavement is slippery.
They fall down and think in their drunkenness they have arrived at a spot where it is not so bad to have a nap.
Laying in the snow on the pavement deep in drunkenness and sleep, the body gets under cooled and soon death has struck.
Another life unnecessarily ended.

In Cracow this situation can be seen frequently.
Another man on the pavement dying.

Once a man was between a high wall and parked cars.
Stretched out on the snow of the pavement.
It was night and dark and it was a scaring sight.
What to do?
The street was crossed to be able to continue the walk.
In a different sentiment realizing a man was there laying drunk probably dying if no help would come.
More people passed and ignored the situation.
Not knowing what to do and feeling visitors in a strange country seeing the Polish not interfering or assisting themselves.

Once a man was totally unconscious more or less sitting in an unnatural pose on the steps of a house.
Completely knocked out by overusing alcohol.
Ready to die also.
He was surrounded by two policemen who were radioing for an ambulance.

Once a man was sitting against a wall in the snow obviously not on this world anymore carried away by too much alcohol.
A well dressed couple passed by and were touched by the man.
They knew he would die if nothing was done.
They called the man but he was too deep in his stupor.
Then the well dressed man put himself in front of the drunk and started to clap in his hands.
To wake him up.
To bring him back.
To life and survival.
But the drunken man didn't respond.
Too far gone to respond to these kinds of rescue efforts.
The well dressed couple gave up and continued their walk.

Press agency IRNA reports on December 21, 2009:

Dozens freeze to death in Poland over weekend
At least 42 people froze to death in Poland over the weekend as temperatures plunged to as low as minus 20 degrees Celsius in parts of the country, police said in Warsaw on Monday.
The victims were reportedly mainly homeless and drunk people between the age of 30 and 50.

Police urged Poles to alert them, if they saw either homeless or drunk persons lying outdoors.

Meanwhile, police was searching for empty houses, garden-sheds and city parks to re-locate the homeless to shelters.

At least, 71 people froze to death in Poland since the beginning of this month.

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For a more detailed story about people freezing to death in Poland, check:

http://mathaba.net/news/?x=622407





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Angelito means little angel

Gumaro said: "Are you coming with us to the cemetery tomorrow?".
The family was going to put flowers and place candles on the graves because of "Dia de los Muertos".
Being friends with the Gonzales for many years, by now most family members resting in the cemetery of Miraflores are known.
So, Gumaro's question was more a polite piece of information.
It was only natural to come.

At the cemetery of Miraflores are buried the parents of Gumaro and the parents of his wife Lucretia.
The custom is that each parent has its own tomb.
A small house with a little altar inside.
Built next to each other.
In Europe most couples want to be buried in one grave together.
Not so in Mexico though.
Each deceased parent in its own little house gets on "Dia de los Muertos" several pots of artificial flowers.
And a visit inside where a prayer is said.

Parents die.
That's only the natural way of things.
And because in the case of the Gonzales it is quite some years ago, the visit is without too much emotion.

This is different when the tomb and little house of Angelito is visited.
He is the son of Gumaro and Lucretia.
Died too young of a kidney disease about 5 years ago.
And this is a deep wound.

Especially the mother, Lucretia, has never been the same after the son's death.
And on "Dia de los Muertos" she goes into the little house alone and all waiting outside hear her cry in such a sad way.
It is total grief.
Hard pain for a bad loss.

When Lucretia eventually comes out of Angelito's little house, it is Gumaro who goes in.
And he can be heard too.
Gumaro, a strong and proud and good man, crying for the the loss of his son he loved so much.

Next, there are the other members of the family who go inside and pray or meditate.
And because the pioneering photographer is considered by the Gonzales as a member of the family, inside the little house Angelito is tenderly remembered as the beautiful and happy boy he was.
Memories so soft and sweet that his departure from this world is making the eyes wet.

Afterwards, when all the flowers are put and candles are lighted and the crying is done, there is relief with everyone.
Like normal breathing is possible again.
And an even stronger bond between the Gonzales can be felt.









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Dia de los muertos

When a mother looses her son

It is getting warm here.
Some would call it hot.
During the day almost 35 degrees Centigrade (95 Fahrenheit) and during the night 24 degrees (75 F).
With hardly any cooling wind from the Sea of Cortez.

Time to leave the east coast of the Baja California peninsula and move to the west side.
To Punta Marquez to continue the work on the PS-series.
Over there temperatures are lower due to the cooling influence of the Pacific Ocean.

The transfer has to wait until after Sunday though.
When is the final of the European Soccer Championships.
Germany playing Spain.
The match will be seen on the small TV of the Gonzales family.
Who are hardly interested.
In fact they even sacrifice because they are completely hooked to their soap operas.
That they have to interrupt during two hours for a soccer match.

The whole day their TV is showing all kinds of soap operas like “Tormenta en el Paraiso”.
“Storm in paradise”.
Cheaply made TV-films.
To reduce costs hardly any scene is on location but everything is filmed in the TV-studio.
Because they produce at high speed the actors and actresses have no time to learn by heart all the texts.
So often you can see them look away obviously reading their words from text boards.

But for the Gonzales the cheapness is not sabotaging them to believe in what they see.
In fact, the main characters are having the personal concern of the Gonzales and if a Gonzales family member has missed an episode the others will do a briefing.
As if it is of any relevance.
But for the Gonzales it has.

These soap operas, called in Spanish “Telenovellas”, are not exactly lifting up one’s spirit.
It is all tragedy, misery, misfortune, suffering and sadness.
A square pipe deposing only negativity of the worst kind into the viewer’s heart.

Somehow this is addictive to people like the Gonzales and millions of others in Mexico.
They not only love to follow the Telenovellas, they are hooked and addicted to them.

In a way that is surprising.
In their lives the Gonzales have their own shares of storms in paradise.

About 5 years ago they lost their son Angelito due to a kidney disease and grief is still strong.

Ketcha’s brother in law in San Diego, USA, is very ill and is unable to finance his medical costs.
He needs frequent medication that costs each time $ 100 and this he doesn’t have.
That is quite a storm in paradise if someone needs medication one cannot afford with all its mortal physical consequences.

One would think that these storms would disrupt enough a happy life.
But no, more is added by watching Telenovellas on TV.

There is a theory that by watching misery on TV, but presented in the rather fairy tale way as Telenovellas do, make people forget their own misery.
Hence, the actual misery of a person can be measured by the time the person is watching Telenovellas.
If half an hour of “Tormenta en el paraiso” will do, the personal misery is rather limited.
But if the TV is showing Telenovellas the whole day, the personal misery must be gigantic.

It is a mother who lost her son.

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To learn more about the soap opera "Tormenta en el Paraiso", click on:


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tormenta_en_el_Paraiso






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