The day I did not send Energia Positiva

There are projects, and sends, and more projects. And then there are the 'no sends.' Those are the painful experiences of almost doing it, of having it all click but for a small little detail, but for a small glitch in the system. I used to think it was about "being ready", having the route dialed, having done the homework, having put in the right amount of hours. But we learn, as I tell my students, times change, things evolve, and what if not human is it to learn from one's own experience and mistakes? Now it all appears much more random, much more about luck, a turn of the Fortuna wheal to the right (or left) direction, as Ignatius J. Reilly used to loudly prophesize. Plans are one thing, reality is something else entirely. 

I almost had it - I worked on my overhanging climbing for some time, I put in my hours in Rodellar, I sent a 7b there last summer, and a 7b+ last autumn, and finally managed to do my first 7c in that style in Gran Boveda. Proud as it might be, I tried for a 7c+ in Bruixes - and what better line than Energia Positiva, the queen of the sector in my lingering eyes? It has everything, a jamming start, a no-hands rest, a hard dynamic boulder move, than overhanging jug-fest to another boulder problem, another rest, the final slab trick on a vertical tufa, another rest, and a final roof. I tried it some years ago, I remember spending almost a whole day to get up it the first time, with Ville patiently belaying, and me using the cheat stick for ever and ever to get to the anchor, all the time wondering about those long white spaces between the bolts. Could I connect the dots? Could I fly? Would I dare? 

In those days my optimism was untainted by ugly experiences of injuries and my rebelling body refusing to follow strict orders. But many things resist us in life, even though we might want them very much, even though we might be ready to sacrifice everything, to give our best, we still can fail. And so we do.

And so it went with Energia, I tried it for some time, then winter passed, other projects came along, and I remained away, busy with other endeavors. My left shoulder got injured, cooling down my climbing ambitions for some time, but like a frog swimming in slowly heating milk, I kept pushing against the current, trying to change the laws of nature, trying to make my body work as planned, as ordered, as prescribed. It did so patiently for some time. One year after my injury I was back to the overhanging terrain, and I was ready for Energia Positiva once more.

I managed to do Occident first, to establish the 7c grade in Bruixes, and then moved on to the next line, Energia. Beautiful, it still was. Inspiring, it shone its light over the valley, all the way to France, driving me closer, calling my name, murmuring enchantments and offering promises of infinite glory. So I came, and I tried, and I tried again. First, I fell on the first boulder crux, and fell again. Then, I fell on the second crux, and fell again. Then, I went all the way to the tufa. I did not fall there - my vertical climbing skills took over, and the slab was done with quickly. But that last roof...oh, roofs. That's another sheet of my climbing history that remains to be filled. Roofs are definitely not for me. They are scary, they are big, they inspire only fear and hate. 

I considered abandoning the route because of this roof. I spent several days trying the move on top rope because I could not dare do it on lead. My demons were hard at work. A roof, the cherry on the cake, at the meter 34 of a 35-meter route, what devil had the idea to put it there? What evil force made the holds so small? Probably the same one that made it also possible to jam my fingers in the crack below, to position myself well enough to go again with the right hand, to grab the second hold up while having a slight drop knee with my right foot on that precise spot, marked with black shoe rubber, longing witness of many passages of other small people like me. Then, go left with the left hand, get the crimp, breeze. Then move the right hand further right, get the left hand on the same hold (don't forget to keep the feet well below), then get the right foot on the right ticked hold, move the right hand right again, get the left foot up on the roof on friction, and do the last move. 7 moves in total from the last clip to the anchor. I repeated them in my head for several virtual sends, for several weeks in a row. I actually discovered the way to do the move several months into the project, as I used to get to the roof so tired I had no positive energy to even try it. But I did figure it out. There was nothing else left but do it.

I got to the roof three times. On my second arrival to the roof I found the fifth knee bar on the route. I knew: when I will have five knee-bars, it will be enough rests to be able to do the route. It was the trick on Occident, and it would be the same on Energia. 

Then on Friday, when preparing to drive again to Bruixes, I woke up in the morning and started coughing. It was not an anodyne cough, but the cough sending forbearance signals for its master, the flu. And the flu came quick behind, in full force. I managed to get to the roof one more time, and then fell again. It was not to be. 

Unfortunately, climbing during flu was not the best idea I ever had - and I paid the price. My right shoulder started to feel strange during this same period of time, and continued going haywire since then. It is time again to forget the overhangs, to forget some dreams, and start (again) finding new ones.

While Energia stays out there, I take it easy, try to learn from my own mistakes, try to remember what shoulder rehabilitation is about, and in the meantime go exploring my new backyard in France. Maybe new projects - maybe on vertical ground this time - await me there?

A storm brewing over the Gorges du Tarn

Beautiful rock of Gorges de la Dourbie

Castle in Gorges de l'Aveyron

And one more, a view on Gorges de Lot from St. Gery

All pictures courtesy of Jonas.

Finishing projects and moving on

And it has come to pass: another project is sent, accomplished, finished: a dissertation has been defended, a school has been changed, a city and a country abandoned, exchanged, switched, and forgotten. Time to move on, time to change, time to go. I celebrated, together with Catalunya, my own accomplishments. With confidence and eagerness, I defended my dissertation, the culminating result of the past five years of hard work, perspiration, and learning. 

I dedicated my dissertation to my parents, who opened the doors to education and otherwise inspire me continuously by their courage and commitment to a better life. I hope I have made them proud, at least for a short moment, at least I have tried my best.

Defending my dissertation

 Receiving last comments from the thesis committee

Done: please, call me Doctor!

Running in parallel to my own life events, Catalunya has been voicing its discontent, defending its own statements and desires, louder again during this ironic and iconic day of September 11th, the holiday in the province, celebrating defeat in 1714 of the last Catalan troops by the Spaniards. 

 Human chain in Barcelona

Catalans celebrated by joining hands across the shores of their beautiful homeland, in a movement that reminded me of Ukraine and Baltic states that had their own moment of human chains in the beginning of the 1990s. During those times, people were also full of enthusiasm and optimism in those far-away lands. Some moved west-ward, some...stagnated and turned around in a different direction. Apparently, I was also dragged to the streets by my parents, although I barely remember anything. 

And the big-picture view....

Good? Bad? Flag-waving disturbs me more than anything else, although I do sympathize with this land that has opened its arms and soul to me for a fleeting moment. Thank you for your generosity, Catalunya, and farewell.

Pictures by my mother.

Finishing my Thesis in Rodellar

And so it went, finishing my thesis in Rodellar.  I remember the late Max Boisot telling us how he wrote his thesis in a cafe in Paris, and since I had a fixation on finishing my thesis somewhere where it would be meaningful for me to do so.  Rodellar is one of those places with a soul, a meaningful place full of surreal beauty and mysterious secrets filling the air, the clouds, and influencing even the heartless humans who wander in and out of its realm, like Montserrat, or Ventosa, or Grand Capucin.  One keeps coming back to the source of water, to the source of life, to get one more gulp, to drink just a little more before it's all over, before the darkness sets in.  Meanwhile, the sun shines bright.

Finishing my thesis in Rodellar, picture by Jonas

Although this is purely symbolic, and I will continue working on improving my current papers, writing more, and some again, working on similar topics, it is still necessary to get closure, to set things into writing on the floating sand of life, to put the final dot over the i.  So it is, finishing my thesis in Rodellar.  This stage took five years of my life, with doubts but also excitement and intellectual growth along the way.  I have met several inspiring people, read many curious stories, and could exercise my writing - while learning a lot along the way.  I did not expect, in my self-assured know-it-all way, to learn so much.  

When I look back, it is a good feeling to realize I have grown - intellectually and emotionally - along the lines of my growing thesis.  No counterfactual exists, as usual, and I will not know if I might have grown in a similar - or different - way even without undertaking this PhD project, maybe by marrying, having children, and turning into a completely different direction with my life.  That did not happen, nevertheless I am satisfied with what I have done and where I have come.  The road has been long and winding, but here I am, finishing my thesis in Rodellar.  It almost sounds like a song, let it be a poem, let it be a bird.  My thesis might not fly and stay grounded, but I feel liberated, in a way more free, more confident, by arriving at the end of this project, with energy and enthusiasm for the ones to come.  

It is not the book that I always dreamt to write - it is a mere 130 double-spaced pages, but it is something I did with perspiration and love, and I am proud whatever the result, whatever the external judgment calls might say. With its exciting ups and painful downs, like the climbing projects, perseverance pays off when things are under your control, and some dreams can be achieved. Setting the bar high enough to be able to jump over, just low enough to be motivated by the slight possibility of making it, that remains the art.  Let the journey continue, let the projects come and go while the time runs its own course in its own direction of things.

My life as a duck

Three months ago, my shoulder went.  I realized the seriousness of the situation only some days later, when the pain refused to go away.  The usual solution of resting a few days and a quick physiotherapy session did not work either.  The (semi-continuous) learning process had begun.

In my self-absorbed unconscious way, I first refused to understand, and pushed myself to the limit.  Familiar routes became my worst enemies.  The struggle against my own body, against my own rebelling flesh and blood.  It did not work.  I had to learn the meaning of the word patience all over again, letter by letter, sound by sound.

Work helped, having other things to focus upon, other windmills to slay, other countries to visit, other people to argue with centered my attention on other objectives, other proximate or far-away goals.  Summer slowly went its course.  People came in and out of my life, invisible and visible borders were crossed, missions were accomplished, others were failed.  Climbing was pushed to the background by the circumstances, by the impossibility, by the unbelievable but true unpenetrable resistance i found in my own body, my own flesh not agreeing anymore with my chartered path, that murky road i had subscribed to for so long.

Months since, i am still as unsophisticated in my understanding of my own body as before (?), i still make the same mistakes, i still try to overclimb, overachieve, jump above my head by the clapping of one hand.  That is not possible, constraints are all around, screaming out loud.  Mind can be strong, willpower can be infinite, but body remains the unperceived master, the submerged boss, setting its own rules, determining its own destiny.  Nothing to change? Nothing to choose? Comply and forget, rebel and remember?

Mushotoku del Andreu? Desapegue del Txema?  Or Borjes' jardín de los senderos que se bifurcan?  Will i ever learn?  Will i stop caring and finally grow up and out of the grade obsession?  Or is that the worst of possible sins?.. Only questions remain, only pain is real.

Things to say

During the last two weeks of my classes i have had an interesting experience - i realized that, for once, i had things to say to my audiences.
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The interesting part about being a Professor is that through convention, norms, and rules of the trade, you earn the right to talk by default: the moment you enter that classroom, those people in front of you become students, and you have to play the role of the teacher.  By default, you get that ominous silence, that air heavy with expectations for you to open your mouth, to express THE TRUTH, to teach, to impart the wisdom to the crowds awaiting. It is funny in a perturbing way how by default they assume that you know, that for some reason you hold the keys, the solutions, the answers to all the questions. And then, in the beautiful tradition of paradoxes, what you first learn upon entering grad school is that......
no, we do not know, we cannot know.  Maybe the kitten is dead.  Maybe it is alive.

Throughout those years of training the frontier of knowledge is made palpable, the uncertainty is increased with every day in the program, with every additional reading, with each discussion and attempt at philo-sofia. Again and again, you are confronted with everything that we actually do not know, worse, confronted with the actual impossibility of knowing.  Exposed to the concepts such as causal ambiguity or incommensurability, relativism and subjectivity, the exceptionality of social sciences.  Oh you, beautiful friends, strategic conundrums.

And then you have to somehow figure it out, find your own voice, and say something out loud to the world, write your own thesis, take a position, convincingly argue for it. On one side you are supposed to be objective and critical, but then, the moment the deconstruction is complete, you are immediately thrown into the soup and asked to swim: to contribute, to have an opinion, an idea, a research statement, a position.  Somehow, it is assumed that after all the deconstruction, after swiping the ground from below your feet, after realizing that there is no center, that even gravity is relative, that life is not unique, that all strategies are imitable because designed by human beings just like you, somehow, you are supposed to get right back up on your feet again, and defend the opposite, argue for your own immortality, carve your own niche of infinite glory and pride, say something new, something different, something outstanding, - while at the same time, if not totally blind, you have to acknowledge your similarity, the infinite similarity of human beings, of our brains, of what we do, of what we aspire to, of how we try to survive, of what we all dream about at night.  To be liked, to live a complete, a meaningful life.

How, how on earth is one supposed to reconcile the irreconcilable, to solve dilemmas and annihilate the trade-offs, the same ones that we all know to have no solution? To promise, and to sincerely try to give what does not exist, what is impossible from the start.  That, they do not explain how to do in grad school.  How to deal single-handedly with Sisyphus's paradox, paradox of being, of writing, of living.  To be different while staying the same, to take a position, to argue for it forcibly; to be convinced. While at the same time knowing the impossibility of conviction itself, the futility of arguments, the surrealism of attempts, of achievements, of goals.  Staying sane in the madhouse, staying happy in hell.
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All this rambling to say that during these last two weeks I have had a small revelation in my teaching - I realized that while in research I am supposed to say something new, in teaching it is most meaningful to simply explain well both points of view.  While the student prides herself on arguing for something, the teacher has the "permission", no, the obligation, to argue for the opposite.  Dialogue or dialectic, Socrates or Marx, but that is the power of THE teacher - that is the ultimate fun of the profession - you are "allowed", no, you have to, argue the opposite.  That's actually when the students have the "a-ha" moment, that's when they might learn just a little bit more, that's when they can surpass their horizons - because you show them that the world is just a little bit broader, just a little bit larger, just a tiny little slice more infinite then they originally thought.  And in these (rare) cases i enjoy my right to speak, i actually have fun - I do not check my watch every five minutes and try to make the class end with all the power of my intellect.  I enjoy it, like climbing perfectly my favorite line, I argue, I take the opposite position.  Do they get it?  Does it matter?  Useless questions.  But I have fun.  Teaching - another strange profession, another surreal, useless undertaking.  Will i be able to find my place in this little world?  It is as surreal and senseless as others - but if I can carve out a couple of minutes of enjoyment here and there, maybe it could just be worth the effort.  Or maybe it is just for the money, and everything else is rationalizing.

An End to the Unending Project Saga

Senglar, picture by Carlo

Never had I thought myself able to try a route of such vigor and difficulty.  I started seriously considering Sprint Final as a potential project for me about a year ago, when finally topping out on Ben Petat, its worthy sister, that obsessed me for the whole previous winter.  Trying out the two neighbors, Somni Diabolic and Sprint Final, then and there I decided Sprint was it - a bit harder than Somni, it had it all, bouldery, resistance moves, intricate sequences, a roof instead of the cherry on the cake, and a sloppy, heart and nerve-breaking exit.  Keeping the route in the back of my mind, I went happily through another summer, another (less happy) autumn, while the incessant time kept creeping closer for Senglar to be cold enough in November.

My confidence boosted by my latest successes on the rock - destroyed somewhat by failures in other domains of this complicated life of ours, I was back.  Surprise surprise - I could not do the lower crux anymore, although i distinctly remembered having figured it all out during the first top rope in spring.  The roof felt harsh, although with some hope in the air.  After a break due to the torrential rains, a dark trip to the sunny Miami, and the start of my training season, a month later I was back on the route.  Old friends giving up on me one by one, new friends miraculously appearing  to keep me and Senglar some deserved company.  Life continues, always, with or without us, with or without our stupid tears, with or without our unreachable objectives.  Climbing, the true friend, hinges there, in the shadowy cracks of reality.

I hit the pavement, hard, on the Christmas-sy street in Andorra, the only thought when lying on the hospital bed running through my oxygen-deprived mind being about Sprint.  "I will not be able to climb Sprint!".  The body gave in, the training took its toll.  Live and learn.  A month later, there I was, so close, so far again.  Figuring out more moves, still falling off the lower sequence, and unable to clip the fixed draw.  But I was making progress.  Slow, but straightforward project progress.

Then, just before the dream was about to come true, the Aussie fell through the air, straight down, right onto me.  It was a perfect day until then - I managed to finally send Ultravox, although tired from the previous day's work-out on Sprint, then I onsighted a 7b near-by - another rare gift from the Mountain and Carlos, who left me draws on the route for the happy ending of my day.  But the Aussie's weight had to hit me, directly on the left shoulder, as my telling him to "CLIP THAT DRAW" was slowly dying off on the deaf ears.  Stupid accidents, not more, not less.  And there I was, ignoring the shoulder, over-training, and getting injured in Siurana on a 6a, not less.  While not being able to put on my own cloths, in rage, I kept thinking "I will not be able to climb Sprint!"

That low point strikes once in a while.  And sure, everyone knows the mantra - it has to be overcome, the only way from there is up.  For some, it's death of a loved one, it's bankruptcy, it's divorce, it's all these pains life keeps throwing our way.  For me, it was the stupidest shoulder injury ever.  I mean, yes, sure, I also managed to kick my pinky into my bed and almost break it, but that did not make me stop climbing.  But the shoulder, on a 6a...that was just too much.  Oh yes, another stupid accident, another blip on the (in)finite timeline, not more, not less.

After another month, some fisio-therapy and mileage on easier routes, there I was again, all new, all intelligent again, all striving for the way upwards, out of my cage.  I felt happy, I dreamt so much about shaking the pump off at that last rest, just before the last sloper, of breathing in the air and watching the scenery - that beautiful, undending scenery that inspired, that kept me feeling warm and fuzzy.  The first time I enjoyed the scenery of Montserrat for real was on the rest of Vianant, when in the beginning we used to time those rests with Pau's phone.  Then, there was no more timing, there was just breathing in and feeling alive, feeling the world around, being totally consious, living the moment.  No appearances to manage, none to convince, only the rock, the body, the rehersed moves, and listening to every cell, to what it has to say, concentrating on making this whole big mass of a mammoth to move up.  Incredible, but possible, the body listening, the mind performing the creation.  Although the body stumbles, cries out, irritates itself and the onlookers, in the end the mind prevails.  But then there are the rests, those incredible rests of long difficult routes, where one stops, breathes, and becomes one with living.

And then after that awesome first day back on the project, after four tries, after all the good sensations - my skin was gone.  Just like that, my fingers split.  Two of them.  I taped, I cried.  But there was not much to do.  The  moves kept becoming harder, the friction kept pushing me off.  Although those were the two coldest weeks in February, I had no skin, I missed my time again, I was off to train, to dream, to wonder.  In the meantime the temperatures went up, way up, making it unbearable during mid-day there in March.  Pedro sent Lourdes, life was moving on.  I was not.  My life stopped there, in Senglar, with this route I had to do, for no apparent reason but for the drive, for the surreal need to do it, to show to myself, to the world, what I already knew deep inside - I could do it, just because I set off to, because I really wanted to, because...

Finally, after months of falling, of starting over, of falling some more, - finally, I started to see some progress in late March.  I changed the clipping hold for the crux, doing one more move, I changed the sequence for reaching the rest, I finally managed to get to the roof in one go.  And again, it was all over again - how to get to the roof in a good shape?  How to get out of there?  I changed again, I finally managed to use the undercling (invertido!!!), unlocking an incredible levitating move to do the roof sequence.  It was not enough.  Down, and down again I went, swirling through the air, down.

And then it came: on an April Friday I climbed the best 20 meters of my climbing career.  I was floating. It all fell together, astonishingly, easily.  The high, the peace, the calm.  I got to the first rest totally incredibly un-pumped.  My heart rate was normal, my breathing was there, no signs of fatigue.  Unbelievable!  For three months I struggled with the first bouldery crux, I fell countless times trying to clip the draw, not finding a way, not seeing it.  I changed the moves, I worked on my two-finger strength, I pulled up for my life on crimps over and over and over again.  I fell, for the first time in my climbing life, with the rope in my hand, just mili-seconds before clipping.  I dared myself, I flew.  It became normal, the swishing, the air-miles on and on, one draw, two draws.  Thanks to all for catching me with a soft landing, doing it so well as to teach me to belay better, to jump more, to give more slack.  Pedro, Carlos, Uri, Xavi - you are all as part of my success as my own hard-headed persistence.

I got through the roof move as if I've always done it that way, as if it was an easy warm-up journey, as if gravity was not around, as if body did not exist, only control, breathing, accuracy, and a free mind.  I went up, through the roof, through the traverse, up.  At the last rest something happened.  I realized I did not care that much anymore, the air, the mountain, they were with me, the wind was pushing me up.  And there I was again - thoughts starting to flow in the wrong direction, my will became less strong.  Txema's "despegue" did not work - or it worked too much.  I rested too much, or too little.  I was disconcerted by the water in the holds, I was...there I was, flying through the air, again, going down in an endless pull.  It was not over yet, the route prevailed, once more.  Once more, my illusions were betrayed, I was not strong enough, I went down, failing that one last dynamic move.  One last two-finger pocket, I saw it right in front of my nose.  Without a sound, I was in the air, and flying down....once again.

Up! Picture by Laia

Although it was my best try ever on the route, best piece of climbing I have ever done to date - it was not to be.  I had to go through just a little bit more.  Then, on a perfect sunny day, things came together.  I was strong, I had that ultimate chunk of rage.  I looked that last two-finger pocket right into its scary eyes.  I doubted, for a mili-second, I doubted.  And then it was mine.  Clipping the chains, and not feeling anything.  The usual.  Project times, dark times.

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I wrote some time ago about projecting here - mentioning my 3-factor model (inspiration, persistence, training), but now I realize I (on purpose?) excluded the other important part - the people, those who inspire for the project, those who come with you over and over, those who listen to endless complaints, those who belay in the rain, in the sun, those who smile and cry with you.  Thank you, my friends, those who stayed with me and helped me during this project.  It has been a pleasure, and I hope I can reciprocate all the favors you gave me freely and happily, the precious little gifts of life, that strange amorphous creature, that is sometimes simultaneously so cruel and so insanely beautiful.  May the painful process of learning and unlearning continue. 

Average life

Science says humans usually over-estimate their capabilities compared to others - it is habitual to find 90% of people believing they are "above average", a fact defying the mathematical idea of an average itself.  The problem with this kind of bias is that it becomes difficult to trust yourself.  So how can we know if we are special, something everyone would probably want to be, or if we are simply average?  From childhood onward, various classification mechanisms are out there to rank us - in school, in sports, at work.  We like awards, but we like even more to be the first one on the podium, to be better, to be...above average.

Funny bias this, come to think of it, as it both ruins many pleasures of life and makes things change, innovation appear: over-estimated confidence pushing generals, managers, or scientists ahead with their crazy ideas.  Accepting being average, consciously choosing to live an average life, has always been impossibly hard for me.  It is not only hard, it is better to say I find the idea of it sad, boring, and not worthwhile to wake up in the  morning for.  I have been struggling against the average life for as long as I can remember.  Always trying to be the best, or at least different, was easy in some fields, much harder in others.  Until the day you meet someone better than you the adolescent hope in miracles remains.

But as life goes on its winding trail you repeatedly do meet the real stars - and I have in every field, in those where I thought I excelled, and in those where it was apparent from the beginning that arriving at perfection would be a big challenge to say the least.  In those cases, my famed persistence usually took over from the rational me, attempting to make up for the lack of talent with the goat-like determination.  Some call this problem the "cult of the light bulb", where the society overall believes in a discourse of a lucky inventor, but in reality most of us mortals have to work very hard and very long to be more than "average".

Where I am going with all of this?  It's a kind of an abstruse personal manifesto - although doomed to be average, let's try for the stars.  My message for the end of the year - and the beginning of a new one - even though this life of mine will probably turn out average in the end, even though it is full of mistakes, although I stumble and fall more often than not, ho tornaria a fer.  I would do it again, all over, with the same passion, determination, and drive, always believing despite painful realities, cold nights, and lonely days, that above-average is attainable.

How to manage a new project?

I have some experience in climbing what my friends call "long-term", it is not the first or the last (I hope) time I take up a hard project and try to motivate myself to live up to it.  This post is part of this self-motivation to continue as so far the project feels somewhat beyond my current level of strength and training (but yes, this is the basic starting point for any project by default).

Starting up the project, Senglar, picture by Juanjo

As a preamble, I think in climbing, like in many other things of life, learning curve is very important.  And it is actually living through this learning curve, which becomes transformed and embodied into the project journey, that makes up for all the suffering otherwise involved in projecting.  Taking up a hard project is like throwing a dare to the world, and to yourself in particular, a dare, but also a commitment to learn, to improve your climbing skill, to live up to the requirements and the challenge of a rock line.  And it is incredible how many challenges 30 meters of rock can conceivably hide.

There are a couple of pre-requisites for working projects: first of all, inspiration.  A climb has to have this over-arching inspiring power, that might have to drive you for several weeks, months, or years.  For me, the most important part of the project is the aesthetics of the line and the diversity and technicality of the moves. It certainly matters where the project is.  If it is to be a long-term love-and-hate affair, it better be close to home, with relatively easy logistics and possible partner options to go there.  Next, the route has to have an inspiring name, really!  With a little bit of imagination we can make sense of numerous route names to relate some meaning to them.  Rush, Discordia, Maugli, or Calladeta motivated me not only because of incredible moves and pure lines, but also because of the names.  I had some trouble with Ben Petat, as I did not necessarily find the name mystic or fascinating enough to drool about at night, but the awesomeness of the moves compensated for the name in this particular case.

Second, to work a true long-term project, a lot of persistence is required.  Either you have it to begin with, or if not you can work on developing character during a project siege, but it is definitely one of the key ingredients to accomplish a project.  Sometimes, during low moments, it might be helpful to hear from your friends encouragements like "Yes, you can do it", but most of the time people will actually tell you that you should change objectives, go somewhere else, try other routes.  It is good advice, but it does not help with the persistence part if you do not have enough of it to spill yourself.  And only persistence will make you succeed if you are not genetically gifted but rather boast an average ability in sports.

Lastly, specific training for a project is part of what makes the whole formula work out for me in the end.  My take on it is to spend 2 weeks training hard for the project in the gym and 2 weeks working the project, in cycles of several months.  During the training (planned using tips and tricks from the best, Eva Lopez) I usually use the week-ends to get my frustrations out on different playgrounds and send some easy routes for the ego, and then use the remaining 2 weeks as project-specific training, trying if possible to be on the project every 2nd or 3d day.  It is a lot of self-discipline and painful planning required, especially when your friends are keen on going to many other different places and you are stuck in one location for months in a row.  But that is the part where inspiration and persistence should help keep you going back to one spot (and yes, sometimes, unfortunately, appear to prefer the "climb" to the people...).

Sticking the crux on the project for the first time, picture by Juanjo

After all this talk and reflection, for me this winter season starts at Senglar, with a new project (appropriately named Sprint Final), trying to break into a new grade (8a+), and becoming once more part of the Montserrat landscape for the months to come.  Maybe I should add "announcing it to the world" as one of the mechanisms for project success, but anyway, there we go, same place, new project.  Times will tell if I am strong enough to go through the process all over again, if my body can take another grade increase, and if fun can be had in the meantime to compensate at least a little for all the abuse on tendons, muscles, and mind.  For the moment, thanks to the faithful belayers - Alex, Joan Maria, Joan, Juanjo, Jordi, Marcelo, and Laia.  To be continued.

Raco del Segre and other stories

An interesting week-end for me, meeting old friends, making new ones.  Saturday I finally accepted Albert's invitation to check out a new sector, called Raco del Segre, located between Alos de Balaguer and the Camarasa dam.  Beautiful (although dusty) ride through the autumn colors brings one into this calm valley, away from the worries and struggles of the dull and nasty world outside.

Below myself attempting (without success) Risc de Cagades, supposedly 7b+ (hard), as seen in the late light by our talented local photograper, Pete O'Donovan.  He is actually another British immigrant and lover of Catalan landscape, as well as one of the developers of the crag I had finally the pleasure of meeting in person (and with a camera in hand!).  The name of the route is, selon Pete, "a play on words in reference to all the 'Risc de Caigudes' signposts the Medi-Ambient have been placing on the walking paths", and it was the best route I tried on the wall.

Sunday I spent with another old old friend, Alex, and his girlfriend Jenia, whom I showed around the cloudy and misty (and then rainy) Montserrat.  Alex has basically taught me most things about climbing as well as mountaineering, and it was an interesting experience for me to climb with him again, showing off the newly gained strength on the warm Mediterranean rocks (this time without dire consequences).  I still remember seeing his pictures of glacier travel in Alaska, with that incredible blue one gets only from high mountain lakes, the strange white and grey shapes of summer glacier, the tired but happy faces of the alpinists.  What a long way since those days, when something made me tick, something made me know inside I wanted to be part of it all, I should try it out, be there, be that tired climber so close and simultaneously always so far away from that illusive summit.

There are people in one's life who stand out, who inspire, who leave a trace.  Those are also the most dangerous people that have the ability to hurt you the most, to make you want to run for cover, disappear behind the radiator, and just spend the whole day crying.  I have been fortunate to meet a couple of people like this, I have been inspired by them at several stages of my life, I have made my mistakes with them.  Those people made me change, made me learn, take the next step, evolve on my own yellow winding road, and for that I remain grateful.  With time and distance we attempt to make better sense of the events, we become our own characters of a novel, players of a game, actors of a play.  Despite the circularity, the surrealism, the egoism, and unending failures, we keep learning something, a little tiny bit more.  And with these small things, we change, and surprise ourselves, surprise the others as well, we build our own puzzle of a life.

Maybe without Alex I would never had engaged with climbing so deeply, so seriously, so personally.  Maybe many things would not had happened the way they did since in my life.  But they have, am I the wiser for it?  Most probably not, but now climbing has been embedded into my soul, I have made it part of myself, I have made my choices consistent with it, I have left behind many other things, things I sometimes regret during sleepless nights, things I sometimes think I might not even care about were it not for the instinct and the genetic programming we all have been played the trick with...Let the construction of life continue for whatever time is left, let me be surprised again, let the circle turn.

...

"A path is only a path, and there is no affront, to oneself or to others, in dropping it if that is what your heart tells you . . . Look at every path closely and deliberately. Try it as many times as you think necessary. Then ask yourself alone, one question . . . Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good; if it doesn't it is of no use."
— Carlos Castaneda

Hole in the chest

Thanks Kostia for the pointer

Mysterious Montserrat

The mysterious Montserrat, the misty, rainy, and full-blown mountain.  It has given me a lot, it probably still has a lot to give.  One just has to be willing to come, to listen, to quietly wait.  Following the Guilleumes descent down, once again, totally wet, slipping with each step, creating friction with my sandals, with my hands, with my hips, feeling intensely the wet vegetation slapping on my face, wet and cold hair getting into my eyes, not thinking, just going down, calculating each step, taking my time and going down.

In the bottomless pit there is a wall.  The one and only dry wall of the day.  Although rain is pouring steadily around us, one white imposing wall is dry.  Obsessed, going up, trying another line, solving another puzzle.  This one is different, this one is the same.  This time it´s a boulder problem that resists me with all its will.  Only 4 moves: first a long reach with the right hand, that is hard, needs some dynamism and decision, but possible.  Then a VERY long reach straight up with the left hand, to a small two-finger pocket, incredibly far away.  The hardest move for me - from down below it just looks impossible, i never reach, i slip with my feet, i struggle with my equilibrium, i change shoes, the new Miuras do not help - the wall pushes me away, the partner somewhere far down below in the mist rushes me to go quickly, we only have a few hours of daylight left, he wants to have his try too.  That reach looks impossible.  I try again.  I figure out the footwork, but the reach is still too far.  Maybe next time.  Then cross with the right hand a couple of centimeters above to another, even smaller, two-finger pocket, if i try hard i fit three fingers there, close the crimp, and pull.  Equilibrium, footwork, believe it, position, and go left again.  Only four moves, but what moves.  The key to the route, the magic key to start dealing with the second part, the remaining hard slabby traverse, again far-away moves, but already more understandable, closer, things i can deal with, slapping on small but definite holds, already having the anchor in sight.

Is this the one? Could i do this one too? Maybe, maybe not.  It depends if the mountain is still with me, if it lets me taste further its deep secrets, if it gives me the right of way for another line, for another moment of hormones, of achievement, or if it leaves me be, lets me fail and stare blankly at an impossible wall.  The mountain does not care, it is concentrated on its trees, its rocks, its mosquitoes and birds, its eternal soul.  Now it is busy overflowing with water, with life.  The humans dangling powerlessly on its walls leave it indifferent, they are insects in the mirror of time.  Let them struggle in their search, in their dire attempts at making sense of their lives, at finding the treasure, at sharing the mystery with another.

when the clouds turn immobile
when the air stands still
when the storm does not appear
and no expectations remain
with spoiled taste in the mouth
time to forget time to remember
time to give up time to smile
time
is
nothing
without you
in the corridors of my mind
wrapped in cushions of red
hanging heels over head
on one rope
swinging in crazy rhythm
another circle
colored in gray
disappearing forever
in the misty night

The fall

Picture by Jaume Clua

So many reflections lately.  But as Weick says clearly in his Sense-making book: "People discover what they think by looking at what they say, how they feel, and where they walked.  The talk makes sense of walking, which means those best able to walk the talk are the ones who actually talk the walking they find themselves doing most often, with most intensity, and with most satisfaction.  How can I know what I value until I see where I walk?"  I do the talk through writing, the walk through climbing, hoping that both substitute quite well.  And if not, oh well, I will remain my only faithful reader, with the added benefit of first-hand understanding.


The fall is a big part of climbing, maybe also of life.  A strong symbol, not only physical, it is also part of such English expressions as "fall from grace", "fall in love", "fall flat on your face", or "fall on deaf ears".  It is also a mythological word, deeply part of Christian, Jewish, but also Muslim and Hindu stories, told and retold to generations of bewildered, open-mouthed children or much more bored and indifferent adults.  In climbing at least, one prepares for it, one faces it, one screams, one bites one's lip, one falls.  The fall can be short, abrupt, and surprising, - like falling in love.  It can be long, painful, even infinite, - like falling from grace.

Falling is a pretty intriguing concept, action-based but oh so mental as well.  When i started climbing, i was unconscious enough for the fall not to matter much.  It was not a possibility deeply considered or analyzed, it was just a consequence, a price to pay for a mistake, something i knew was objectively there, but not close enough to evaluate, to experiment with, to make up my mind about.  Climbing long routes, high up in the mountains, the fall became a far-away reality, a myth, a symbol of something climbers do, but not something i assumed or struggled with personally.  It took some time, but falling came to me, and stayed with a vengeance, waging a total war against my established climbing personality, my self-esteem, my most dearest, - the desire to climb and surpass myself.

I remember clearly my first serious fall - leading the hardest pitch on Whitney-Gilman route on Cannon mountain in New Hampshire, after having done it already at least twice (once in February during a memorable winter ascent with my Russian friends), I clipped the piton, and started traversing.  I got pumped.  I tried to go back to the piton, tried to go directly up.  My arms started to give up.  My partner was too far to hear me.  At some point i just could not hold on anymore and let go.  I have no memory of the fall itself, only of the soft landing on top of my backpack, the surprise at being whole and not aching much anywhere, of the piton still sticking up there its ugly head and holding all my weight, proudly showing off its strength despite the years of corrosion and withstanding all possible weather affronts.  I did not get overly scared - but I haven't done many falls on gear since either.

I remember my other fall, THE FALL, in Callanques, same partner, different route.  Bolted all the way, how much better could it be?  I was too confident, I was that young bold alpinist from the joke, I urgently needed a lesson.  After an epic on the Eiger, an epic in Cham, the third w/end was to be in Callanques, it was time for me to really learn my lesson - not even in my beloved high mountains, but on warm white limestone that first lulled me back to confidence, just to strike better at the right target.  Strong as i felt, i did not manage to clip the bolt from the ledge.  I went for the move anyway, without clipping.  I failed, i fell.  Only a couple of meters, but a nasty, side-ways, painful affair, slashing my foot open and disabling me for the season.  Again, i do not remember the fall, only the strange amazement from looking at my bleeding foot slowly growing in size to a small pumpkin, the adrenaline going down, and the pain kicking in.  The long way up the remaining pitches with one foot and Alex pulling me up the rope, already in the dark, the light of the headlamp so far away, the painful last meters of the supposedly gorgeous ultimate 6a pitch, sitting and waiting for the rescue on top of Devenson in the cigales-filled night.

I thought this one did not matter either - but when i went back on the rock afterward, my brain switched.  It switched automatically and for real.  The switch was on for self-preservation.  The brain does not forget, that switch was genetically programmed and sealed for the years to come.  There was no more risk-taking.  Any fall with any kind of unhappy potential made me give up.  I gave up on 6bs, on 6cs, on 6as, I followed.  I cried.  I raged.  I dreamed of leading and could only go second.  I went higher, on harder routes, but I went second.  I subconsciously blamed my climbing partners, blamed Alex, blamed the world, those were some unhappy years of my climbing.  The reconstruction took some time.  It took a rather long time indeed.  Two years following, a year leading easy multipitch, another year of projecting with slings as long as one could tie together short of toproping.

Now I can almost face the fall - I still use many slings, but i can face the fall, i can count to three, close my eyes, do a stupid Sharma-cry, and let go.  Whatever happens - take it, assume it, believe in your partner, in the rope, the gri-gri.  And fall.  That is an integral part of sport climbing.  Falling is possible, falling can be accepted, never completely controlled.  Time, and a lot of effort.  Maybe, one day, my dream would be to do one of my projects without the slings, opening myself to the fall, taking the risk, enjoying only the move, the freedom, the air below, accepting the possibility of a fall, and moving on with it.  Maybe that is a good next step.  Maybe not.

I do not have recipes, but with a lot of effort, practice, and pushing your body, one can find the gift, the freedom, the courage to look the fall into its scary eyes and let go.  Some people will be able to do it much easier, some will go solo, and not care about gravity or anything else at all.  Most humans will be scared - scared as we are in so many moments of life, scared of failing, scared of climbing pumped, climbing at the limit, scared of giving it all, all the best there is in us, all the best we can give.  The good thing about adrenaline though is that while on the project, when knowing all the moves, the fear is transformed, it changes its colors, it switches its crazy face to a tone of white, not grey anymore.  It is about putting one foot in front of the other, of fighting the pump, of doing the mechanics of the moves - it is not only about the fall anymore.  Coming full circle, the fall becomes secondary, just a consequence of messing up, but not an ultimate punishment, not the scarecrow it used to be, not the unknown grey shadow, but a normal possibility that is accepted, faced, and assumed. 

The climbing life

Climbing life is a choice - not an easy choice, but a clear choice it is. Some might call it an irresponsible life, a selfish life, a wasted life. All of that might be true. But it is also a life, and as life goes, it has its own ups and downs, its evolution and learning, maturing, illnesses, fears, depressions, sorrows, and joys. You talk about it, you do it, you plan it, you regret it, you assume it. Like any life, better or worse - I am none to judge. I think a life dedicated to something is already a more interesting life than just passing the hours, working, partying, sleeping, eating, and defecating.

I have tried to live my life setting goals, striving for something, at least giving myself the illusion of moving in a direction. Although less clear in my professional life, it has always been like that with my climbing. Longer routes, harder grades, more engagement, more exposure. When I first started climbing, leading what seemed to me then the "free" climbing life, passing months in Yosemite, in Squamish, going on expeditions to big mountains, appeared like a good goal, like something very hard but achievable. When looking at photos of treks in Nepas, when listening to stories every good old mountaineer is so good at telling the youngsters, I not only listened - i believed, i ruminated. It took me some years, some effort, a lot of convincing and family compromises, but I took the step towards my dream, I spent my time in Squamish, in Yosemite, in Cordiliera Blanca. I looked death into the eyes. Those eyes were not scary, they were cold and indifferent. That place was uncomfortable, humid, and inhumanly sad.  There was nothing beyond, it just all ended, even without a scream.  I did not like the image i saw in that mirror. I did not want to be that person - I was not fit enough, i was not strong enough, i was not ready to give it all up. I wanted down, I wanted to live, I had so much more to see and to do, I had enough energy to step by step go up, set up the tent another time, rub the feet against each other, spend 2 hours warming up the hands, suck on the snow, cooperate, and go down. I could move forever, for hours, i was going to survive.

Since, my climbing life changed. It took me a long time to realize the impact, the weight of the experience, the pain of the encounter, the fear of this lonely encounter I did not want to make again soon. Pressured to stop climbing by family, I decided against it, i took it easy, i moved again on the rock, in the sun, in warm rock shoes over easy vertical terrain. I took up the lead rope, i decided i wanted to climb, point. I did not want to be a super-hero, i did not want to be that mountain woman that died young, i did not even care about long routes anymore, i could live without snow-covered bell-shaped peaks that helped one look god into the eye.  But not without a goal. I learned all i needed could be had in just 20 or 30 meters of a vertical playground. The same challenge, the same need for metal will, for grinding teeth, for faith, planning, and determination.

Setting goals is an interesting challenge and it uses up our consciousness to the fullest, the capacity of the brain to focus, to understand, and to coordinate the body for the purpose at hand. In climbing this is enhanced because you set goals about your own body, your mental power, you control (or not) your fear, and you build your strength, step by step. Only you can do it, only you might fail.

After a year and a half of hard training I am consuming the fruits, floating up the old projects, figuring out the moves on the new ones. Climbing is a tough maiden - she requires months of dedication, years of prayer and offerings, and decades of practice. She gives little in return: a vague smile here, a sparkle of an eye there. She spirits away the imprudent soul, the inattentive by-stander; the fleeting relationships, the weak do not withstand her continuous test. Always mysterious, always on the verge of escaping, of letting go your confidence, of betraying your faith.

But then there is the whole process of learning - and i think this is something that surprised me and made me so addicted to sport climbing. Starting a project with hardly being able to move bolt to bolt, looking at the life-line, the rope, and wondering how ever will i be able to lead this - to not only doing all the moves free, but to also getting to the top unaided, floating into the sky unstopped by gravity, by the heavy body, by the obtuse mind. And then, with time, with study, with careful examination, with a lot of self-persuasion, some daring and confidence, moving up, progressing, from doggying the route to starting to make progress, to climbing with a couple of falls, to redpointing.

The process is always the same, the routes are different. Moves change, names differ, weather becomes capricious, belayers come and go. But the rock stays - the pleasure of moving up, of not fearing the draws, of weightlessly moving up and away, the total concentration of being here and now, of living the present moment. Of having invested time, committed oneself to this, and the body responding, doing incredible things one thought impossible, one believed made for gods, not mortals. The magic continues, the magic persists. Maybe it is a stupid magic, a surreal magic that will evaporate one day with the mist of Montserrat, that will leave me be, leave me empty and exhausted, unfulfilled and remorseful, that - one day, staring death into the eyes again.  Or maybe I will continue enjoying every day, every moment of the movement, staying young in spirit if not body, motivated as ever, the head above water.


People come, people go, they hurt you, they are unreliable, they are selfish, they are boring, they are cowards and liars. The rock stays. People come, people go, they surprise you, they teach you, they inspire you. The rock does not change, does not speak, but it does not betray you either.  It shows you who you are immediately, it makes you tell the truth quickly and honestly, sticks your nose into the mud of your reality, but also makes your day happy and worthwhile.  Let the people go, let them choose other lives, let them give up climbing, cheat on the mistress or the wife, leave the goddess in tears, let them give up their dreams and ambitions. Let them believe in prophets, duties, and other mirages. Me - I will go for a climb, I will go search for the mirror to look myself again into the eyes and see my worth, see my courage, see my fear, keeping balance on the edge of the void.

Strange times

Strange times between projects, looking for motivation, for color, finding reasons to suffer more, working, sleeping, not much more going on - so much more going on.  Moving on, from the South face to the North face, or going in circles.  Pushing people away, trying to keep them in, life goes on, in its own inexplicable way.  Dreams of granite keep me awake at night, nightmares put me to sleep.  Let the strange times roll...

Let my people go surfing

"With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world." - Desiderata, by Max Ehermann

I have been preparing to teach a case on Patagonia company recently,  for once intersecting my professional and climbing life.  Yvon Chouinard has founded Patagonia in the 60ies, as a result of his experimentation with climbing equipment and blacksmithry.  From company history website: 

"Chouinard, after meeting John Salathé, a Swiss climber and Swedenborgian mystic who had once made hard-iron pitons out of Model A axles, decided to make his own reusable hardware. In 1957, he went to a junkyard and bought a used coal-fired forge, a 138-pound anvil, some tongs and hammers, and started teaching himself how to blacksmith. Chouinard made his first pitons from an old harvester blade and tried them out with T.M. Herbert on early ascents of the Lost Arrow Chimney and the North Face of Sentinel Rock in Yosemite. The word spread and soon friends had to have Chouinard's chrome-molybdenum steel pitons. Before he knew it he was in business. He could forge two of his in an hour, and sold them for $1.50 each.

...

By 1970, Chouinard Equipment had become the largest supplier of climbing hardware in the U.S. It had also become an environmental villain because its gear was damaging the rock. Climbing had become more popular, but remained concentrated on the same well-tried routes in areas like El Dorado Canyon, the Shawangunks, and Yosemite Valley. The same fragile cracks had to endure repeated hammering of pitons, during both placement and removal and the disfiguring was severe. After an ascent of the degraded Nose route on El Capitan, which had been pristine a few summers earlier, Chouinard and Frost decided to phase out of the piton business. This was to be the first big environmental step we would take over the years. It was a huge business risk – pitons were then still the mainstay of the business – but it had to be done.  "

"I've been a businessman for almost fifty years.  It's as difficult for me to say those words as it is for someone to admit being an alcoholic or a lawyer.  I've never respected the profession.  It's business that hast to take the majority of the blame for being the enemy of nature, for destroying native cultures, for taking from the ppor and giving to the rich, and for poisoning the Earth with the effluent from its factories.  Yet business can also produce food, cure diseases, control population, employ people, and generally enrich our lives.  And it can do those things and make a profit without losing its soul." Yvon on business...

What if business was also about ... letting the people go surfing?  Maybe productivity achieved would be lower, maybe more people would be able to find their passion in life - in surfing or otherwise.  Or maybe this is all a utopia, and Patagonia is happily screwing its customers by making them pay important premiums on Patagonia products to cover Chouinard and his team's "surfing" times and environmental dreams...?

Project times

These strange times, between eying a line for the first time, figuring out you like it, figuring out it is challenging enough - just enough to keep your interest - to saying oh, it's sooo good, to coming back, trying the moves, again and again.  And the positive feelings of the first serious attempts - starting to believe in the possibility of a send.  Overcoming the fear, from doing the separate moves, to leading up.  From leading to clipping all draws instead of grabbing them, from clipping to doing a couple of draws at a time, up.  Forcing yourself - cold days, tired days, standing below with no energy left - and coming down full of excitement.  To serious tries, where you surprise yourself, you get over another move, and another move.  You set goals, and get there - maybe not today, but tomorrow.  Another miraculous foot appears, another climber sends the route.  You watch, you think, you analyze, you try to optimize.  When your brain says "I can't", but at the same time your will power pushes you on.  Project times.

Then the slope gets steeper - excitement is replaced by days of no progress, of cold, of "why am I here", "i can't", of grabbing the draw, of self-humiliation in your head, of fear.  Black humor days, watching people send, always feeling inferior, not having boulder power, lacking resistance, pumping up, the miraculous foot slipping just when you thought you were really going for it.  The days when you feel like quarreling with the whole world over, when nothing goes well, when even climbing gives up on you, when you wonder about caves and dark places, when justifying, rationalizing, and waiting simply do not make it worthwhile anymore.  The clutches close, you slumber, you go down.

Then sun comes out again, the circle turns.  They come, they go, they repeat themselves over.  The dark times.  The bright times.  Project times.

Year-end

This year will be remembered as the tipping point, consolidating my conversion from alpine to sport climbing.  From struggling to lead 6as the year before to onsighting 7as and redpointing 7cs.  From lame socializing at the climbing gym to serious training three days a week.  From not being able to pull myself off the ground with both hands to doing 3 decent pull-ups on jugs and 2 pull-ups with 3 fingers on slopers.  That's as much progress as my mind can fathom in a year - and i am still struggling with the consequences (tendonitis, triumphalism, and hubris at the rocks).  I have also worked a little bit on my head skills - although long way remains to decrease the gap between onsight and redpoint grade, or to increase the amount of accumulated flying miles.  The psychological aspect of climbing is the most fascinating and the hardest to challenge through direct action.  I have tried - and hopefully will keep trying, although I do not believe fear could - or should - ever go away.

Otherwise I'm afraid I have not progressed as much in other domains - .i remained stubborn, self-centered, closed as a marmot, and alone as ever.  Oh, I did get a Masters' degree, too, so that is another accomplishment I tend to forget.  I also started giving classes and improved my presentation skills to the point of feeling comfortable presenting my own work to the audience of serious professors in front of me.  Maybe climbing helps me in a way in this not that related field - i started to tell myself that if i can deal with the stress and panic of a hard climb, if i can assume the risk of flying and still give it my best, if i can try that hard - and survive - i can also master the critical eye of the other.  I can expose myself - maybe just a little bit - take the cloth off and share my world - invite people in, or at least move the curtain a little aback.  Having a blog is also my way of sharing.  Let's hope next year i will have more things to share, more motivation to improve, and more dreams to look up to and possibilities to imagine.  Or not.  The black hole is always there, ready to swallow the elephant, the giraffe, or any other prey walking with their head high and spirits low.  Hit me, may the new year begin.

And last but not least - my first try at editing a video, cameraworks by Pau, myself redpointing Viatgi Imaginari...Happy holidays and loads of inspiration to you all.


Imaginary Journey from Uasunflower on Vimeo.


(sorry for writing Spain in the title, the "error" was pointed to me after the editing had been closed...)

Aporia or the Imaginary Journey

I have traveled wide and long, over many years no place felt like home.  Now, since a couple of years, I have stopped.  In this place, Catalunya, that I now call home.  Other climbers make me feel a little more justified in my choice - here is Sharma talking about his choice of home, friends, and family.  Imaginary or not, the journey goes on, we choose where we want to be, and we go.  Or we don't.  For me one of the benefits of this new age of freedom of movement is the possibility of choosing - I want to live near the rocks, so i do.  I want to define my identity through climbing, so i do.  Have i finally reached port?  I don't know, but sedentary life is not necessarily an unimaginative one. The journey can be real or virtual, dreamed through or real to the core.

Identity is so fluid, so good - and so wrong.  It is not there, or it is.  You would die for it, and than it is all empty.  A journey is an escape, escape from self that never gets it right, always looking for the zen - the stone master who wanted to be the sun, the wind, the mountain - and then the stone master all over again.  More years means just more circles - there is no more first time, only a deja-vu, an again and another retaliation of the same tune. Purification, authenticity - or all lies, all pretending, all artificial intelligence, artificial flavor.  Only color, only smell, only concentration, only way is up.  Another route, another project, another repetition of same old routine.  Even climbing succumbs to it, gets dragged into the mud - the cold, the body, the head, all the same, all over again.  Imaginary journey, a different setting - or all the same, all over again.  Making sense of it, finding meaning, giving meaning.  Lines, rock, relationships, conversations - needs and necessities, nothing real, all imagined, all of it in the head.  Images - the boy with lama, the dying girl, all of it sensemaking, making sense, giving meaning to the world, in search of an innocence, the forgotten island of the past, the never-ending journey to the future.  Why would it matter?  There are no more rats, only ravens - crowing on the tombstones, tombstones of the dreams, the ones we've never been free to dream.

Viatgi Imaginari is a 40-meter feet of imagination indeed, orange, grey, bouldery, slopery, holdy.  It has a roof, it has a pillar, it has a slab.  It has a run-out, it has a hidden save-me bolt.  It even has three key heel hooks to get the pressure down and give your arms back the needed strength.  A route to imagine, a route to climb. 

Not exactly related, but an example of another parallel imaginary journey, Oksana started to make Lyalkas, or dolls in Ukrainin, when she broke her leg and did not know what to do with herself for several months.  Now her dolls are a success and a pleasure to look at.  There is always  more to be imagined, the journey that goes on...

Russia and its fate

I was reading today Khodorkovski's pronouncement and wondering why Russia, or rather many of its people, have had this unfortunate fate of misery and demise in their own homeland.  Whereas Americans, a little naively for sure, are usually seen in the bright light of the American dream and positive, if simple, emotions, Russia has earned the stereotype of suffering and never-ending maze associated with its intellectuals.  Or, maybe, Khodorkovski is just aiming at the long run, playing his best response in the game, and all this should be dismissed as more rhetoric of another ambitious 'future Mr. President'?   Yes, institutions in the country do not help, as Khodorkovski's case so well illustrates.  However, there are also others, such as Perelman, who have refused their talent and participation in the world altogether.  With each mention of Perelman, Dostoyevski comes to my mind.  He somehow managed to epitomize in his work the country and the Russian soul, or did he?  Yes, it would be scary and a little hopeless if so.

Ahthough Khodorkovski's story is the one in the limelight today, many other entrepreneurs and talented people have given up hope, taken up their belongings, and moved out.  Or maybe this is my unconscious self trying to justify why me too, i have left my own country and not been willing to recognize it for some time now as part of my identity.  Shattered hopes, my parents' absence of a vision of me in that country, all this contributed certainly to the exhaudus - of me in particular, and many, millions of others, in general.  The consequences cannot be evaluated, usual in social sciences, - as we will never know what a world with a successful Soviet Union would have looked like.  But it certainly would have been very different.